As per Merriam Webster:

creepy (2): of, relating to, or being a creep : annoyingly unpleasant

I’ve lived in New York City now for almost one full year (!) and there is one aspect of this city that I find creepy.

People are often soliciting you for something, even when you have not indicated any interest towards either the person or the something.

Maybe this constant solicitation is a reflection of the “aggressive” nature of the city. If Person A does not solicit you, then Person B will… and, since some people believe that everything is a zero sum game here, you gotta act or you’re screwed.

Specific examples:

The guys in Chinatown who peddle knock-off Rolex watches. Every single time I emerge from the subway tunnel, some guy spots me and thrusts a sheet of paper into my face. He then begins to chant, “Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex…”

The first few times this happened to me, I didn’t even understand what these people were saying. They say “Rolex” so quickly and repetitively that it sounds like rhythmic mumbling.

Though I walk away and make no eye contact, they continue to follow me, chanting, “Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex Rolex…” until I finally get to the crosswalk.

Sometimes I think they don’t actually breathe. They just chant.

The fellows in the Garment District who sell leather goods. They linger outside of their shops, leaning on circular racks of leather jackets.

“Leather jackets… top quality leather jackets… leeeeeeeeather jackets….”

They don’t physically trail me around the way the Rolex guys do, but they’re not chanting, either. Their solicitations aren’t cat calls, but if you ignore what they’re saying and pay attention only to how they say it, it sounds a bit creepy.

“Leeeeeather jackets….”

Taxi drivers early in the morning. So I’m waiting to cross the street on the sidewalk. I just finished my morning run; my hands are resting on my waist and my face is red. I look up to check if there is any oncoming traffic.

Then I see a taxi approaching, the indicator atop his car revealing that he is available to pick up customers. He slows the car down, probably down to less than five miles an hour, and the vehicle begins to creep past me.

I look up—something has changed in the landscape and my peripheral vision has detected this—and the taxi driver is looking out the window at me. He’s still driving very, very slowly. I look away, too tired to wave him off.

He lingers a few moments longer—he’s now five, ten feet past me—and I continue to ignore him.

When I look up again, he’s finally sped up.

Strangers. I ran a race this past weekend and, while waiting in the corral for the race to start, I was chatting with The Beau’s brother. I sensed someone getting too close and looked to my right.

An older man, probably old enough to be my father, was pointing his finger at my race bib, which was pinned low on the front of my shirt. His finger was almost touching the location of my belly button.

I must have leaned away a bit; he looked up, but didn’t move his finger.

“I just wanted to see your pace,” he said, all friendly-like. In addition to reading the pace printed on my bib, he could also see my name.

“Uh huh,” I said, wondering what it is about me that made him feel comfortable to practically poke me in the belly.

“Your pace tells you where you go in the corrals,” he continued.

“Yeah,” I said, very aware that he and I were talking about nothing. “I just go where they tell me to go.”

“People usually just want to do their nine,” he continued, finally withdrawing his finger and looking at my face.

“Their nine?” I asked.

“Their nine races for entry into the marathon,” he said.

Thankfully, the announcer began to speak, thus interrupting our conversation.

(Though we started in the same corral, he remained ahead of me for the first mile or two; then he disappeared.)

More strangers. I’ve written about the fascination people in New York have in other people’s food.

Still more strangers. #6.

For a city full of so many strangers, there are a lot of efforts to make connections, fleeting or not.