Can You See Me Now? (Cigar Smoke 1-17-08)

Well, gals and gal-ettes (I can’t get more nonsexist pig than that!), how are you all doing in this New Year? I’m doing pretty well, and thanks for asking. I’m sitting here at my computer listening to Bob Dylan on iTunes. Something about mountains with thunder and mystic gardens and crystal falcons. I had ham-hock-and-split-pea soup last night for dinner. Life is good.

Except … (You knew there would be an “except,” didn’t you?) I have discovered that at my semi-advanced age I am hardly ever noticed by anyone under the age of 40. I know this is kind of an old saw and that old guys have always said this, but now that I am walking the walk, I am here to tell you that it’s the damn truth: I am invisible!

Nobody sees me. It’s incredible. I was in the mall the other day returning all the thoughtful gifts my family gave me, and I was bustling along being a good citizen shopper while teenagers walked right at me like they were playing chicken. If I hadn’t moved at the last second, they would have run right into my lanky butt.

At first, I just thought they were being their usual rude-ass selves, but when it kept happening, I had to admit that they didn’t really see me. I think if we had actually run into each other they would have thought they hit a post. OK, a pudgy post that smelled like an ashtray, but a post nonetheless.

It doesn’t bother me that the guys don’t look at me. Hey, they’re guys. They only look at girls and carburetors. But it does bother me that the girls and young women don’t see me. Oh, I’m not completely out of touch with reality; I don’t expect a real look with real eye contact with a possibility, albeit remote, of a possible hookup of even a tame, nonthreatening, platonic kind. (Make a movie out of that, Spielberg.) I just want them to acknowledge in some way that I am really there. Is that too much to ask?

They could even be hostile. That would be fine with me, “Pardon me, sir, but could you get the damn hell out of my way.” God, I would love to hear that. “Sure, Miss, excuse me for even being here on the same sidewalk. I apologize. Hope you find that PCC stud-hunk who’s flunking out of chemistry you’re looking for. Good luck, and thanks for being pissy. I appreciate it.” I am not kidding. I would appreciate that. Just acknowledge me. That’s all I want.

I know this sounds kind of scary, creepy-uncle scary, and I wouldn’t tell this to anybody except you guys, but I would even grope some young thing if I thought she would react. I would. I know I would. I would go up to some woman who was wearing shoes that looked like they would take names and I would ease up behind her and reach my hands around her and — call the cops now — I would cup her young throbbing breasts that were trying to break free from their clothing confinement.

But I don’t do this. Why? Am I afraid of being arrested? No. Am I a nice guy who shouldn’t even have these thoughts? No. I don’t do it because I know she would say to her girlfriend standing there, “Damn, this bra is tight, Tiffany. It’s just pulling into me.” That’s why I don’t do it. Shoot me now.

Now, after saying all this, and exposing my gropieness, I actually did have a pretty neat experience the other day. A beautiful woman in her early 30s actually saw me the other day. Yes, an actual geezer-I-can-see-you-now sighting. She acknowledged me even. I couldn’t believe it.

I was in an office building last week, pretending I still had a job and a reason to live, and I got into an elevator. There was no one else in there. Just me and the buttons. Then as the doors were closing, a nice-looking actual woman got into the elevator with me. I moved to the back and she punched in her floor, and then she turned and said, “Hi, how’s it going?”

I turned and looked behind me, and when I saw the elevator wall, I remembered I was alone. I asked, “Are you talking to me?” And then she did something I never thought I’d ever see again. (No, not that.) She smiled. Oh, God, she smiled — a real smile from a real woman who didn’t know me. Man, it was beautiful. Much better than a grope.

Yes, she smiled and said, “ Yes, I’m talking to you. Who did you think I was talking to?” I said, “I thought there was somebody behind me.” She laughed. Yes, a real laugh from a real woman. And then she did a little woman hair-flick maneuver. Just subtly tossed her hair back a little. Such a small thing. But God, it was great.

So, because I had read a book on body language 20 years ago, I knew her hair flick was just her way of telling me she wanted me, and wanted to dump her lout husband, and wanted to run away with me to Room 432 at the Ritz-Carlton and go to the satin-sheet city of love. I was pretty sure that’s what she meant.

So I sidled up to her — yes, sidled, just a subtle George Clooney sidle — and I raised my eyebrows just a little, and I said, “Hi. How you doing? right back at you.” I tried to sound mysteriously and darkly sexy like a rebel on Vicodin.

Just then the elevator door opened, and she got out on her floor, and she looked back at me, and our eyes met, and I’ll never forget the words she said. I can still hear them like it was just yesterday: “Call security!”