Community Porn
Aha! It’s worked again! In the same vein as my Butts, Butts, Butts post, you’ve been fooled into clicking on this link through the use of deceptive marketing tactics. Alas, you will find no pornographic fantasies here. If that truly is what you are after in this particular moment, then I humbly submit to you this LINK by way of apology (click if you dare).
I’m wandering aimlessly around the Strip District, it having been significantly revamped since my last visit, five or so years ago. Today it exists as a busy, hip commercial district – a space which feels both foreign and familiar to me. It is far removed from the grungy, unpolished shopping centre that my mother brought me to as a child. The Strip has always been beloved by true Pittsburghers – Wholey’s Fish Market, the Asian markets, and cheap, knock-off Steelers gear. Now…it’s changed.
Every major city has one of these transformed spaces. Or two, or three or four, and Pittsburgh is no different – Lawrenceville, the South Side, where I sit now, &c. I’ve stopped walking for the moment, having wandered away from the main drag. I’m tucked away at a round, steel picnic table, outside of a swanky office building that’s skinned with corrugated steel siding, across from one of those funky new apartment buildings. It’s one of those ones in which the architect had a seizure while deciding what century the exterior should mimic – and thus went on to plaster every texture and material that they had access to onto the same structure, calling it “modern”. Likewise, that building is also adorned with decorative steel.
A block away from the swanky office building and the hip living facility, on the opposite side of the road from a trendy brewery, stands a ±9-foot monolith of patinaed steel, erupting from the sidewalk, and embossed with a large number “3”. It serves as a street sign – “3 Smallman Street”. The sign makes me double take as I try to scurry past it (the sounds of clinking camaraderie coming from inside of the brewery are enticing me to follow, though I don’t wish to break my current sobriety streak). I draw closer to the isolated monolith, and like that scene from that one movie, I (the ape) reach out and touch it. It’s made of plastic, printed to look like steel.
Contrary to what you might expect, in this moment, and many moments like it, I secretly long to be part of this community. The bustle, the noise, and the ever-present opportunity to meet new friends and women. But six months of rent here would cost all of what I’ve earned in the past twelve months combined. And I’m still broke, to the point in which even pretending to be a part of this community for one night – eating in restaurants, going out for drinks, and late-night Ubering with new friends to weird, unexplored districts and hangouts – would only cause me shame when I looked at my wallet the next morning. And if I were to intelligently reflect on the lessons that I’ve learned in life, I might recognize that my draw to this place could be clouded and skewed by yearnings which require a deeper study in order to fully understand – yearnings which would not be pacified by simply renting an apartment in a locale such as this.
I’m walking again, back down Smallman Street, towards the main drag. I see multiple signs which read, “Restrooms for Customers Only.” God, do I need to use a bathroom right now.
Side note: I’ve stopped to sit on a bench that’s built into the steps in front of the refurbished Produce Terminal Building. Ten feet in front of me, a woman my age in a crisp, yellow sun dress, with her neat and trimmed husband and two small children, are being photographed by the professional they’ve hired. I’m about 90% certain that I’m going to be in at least a few of those photos, as the out of place bystander who’s awkwardly perched on the market steps, huddled over a notebook. On some carnal level, I hate them. On another, I envy her – though only her. The next time that you find me as manicured and well dressed as her husband, I’ll be lying in my casket.
I caved. I really needed to use the bathroom. And I was hungry anyways. I went into the Chipotle at The Terminal. The girl at the counter met me with a look and a tone which clearly stated, “Give me no amount of shit, and you might survive this encounter.” I used the bathroom. The code is 1-3-5-7-9-# for anyone who might find themselves in search of a restroom down here. And now, here I sit with my burrito, alongside Smallman Street, watching this seemingly flourishing community of people strut past in their yoga pants, boutique denim, and smart watches.
Like this environment, the feeling which builds inside is both foreign and familiar to me. I’ve experienced this sensation, many times before. I’ve never understood it. Pedestrians’ eyes repeatedly fall on me as I sit here alone, with my burrito and my pen, and my backwards baseball cap, and my decade-old Abercrombie long sleeve shirt (a gift from the ghost of a girlfriend’s-mother past). I don’t know what they see when they glance my way. Frankly, I don’t know that they do see me at all. Ironically, I’ve witnessed 3-4 different camera lenses unintentionally pointed my way since I’ve been here. One jackass simply filmed the entire walkway from the passenger seat of a moving car. But not in one instance do I suspect that the operator of one of those cameras noticed that I was sitting here – much less do I think that they actually saw me. Unless…perhaps they did see me, for what I actually am? The outsider, in an otherwise homogeneous community.
Another side note: A man just limped up the steps past me, and into the Chipotle. He was evidently going in to pick up his order, but at first glance, it appeared as though he might be approaching to ask me for something – a dollar, some food, the code to the bathroom. Even though his outfit was more expensive than mine, my initial judgement was that he was without a home. It was something about the way that he looked at me which touched a nerve inside my soul. As he limped past again, back to his illegally parked car, I felt the frantic urge to say something to him. Anything. “Hey, I see you,” perhaps. But I didn’t. This wasn’t my Buts in action. I was supposed to feel this, not fix it.
I suspect that my experience in this place could be made more enjoyable with a partner on my arm. I remember being dragged to coming with my girlfriend to places like this, back in Columbus. But romance and conversation would only ever steal me so much time, before the feeling would inevitably creep in again. And booze and expensive food seem to be integral parts in the effort to pursue romance or conversation in a place like this, which excludes me at this point in my life.
Something about this place feels masturbatory. The same way that a video game strokes your desire for incremental achievement and accomplishment, and the same way that pornography strokes your…well, yeah. In this same sense, places like the one in which I silently sit seem to caress a desire which is equally primeval and intrinsic to the survival of mankind: The desire for acceptance into a community.
I remember Akureyri. Midway through the tiny house build, I lost my mind and purchased a $50 camping backpack, and a $120 one-way flight to Iceland. Though I hadn’t voiced this thought to anyone, my intent in that moment was to find a way to stay – to begin a new life, away from the mistake that I’d made in attempting to craft a tiny house, which was consuming my soul. Today, I can reflect back and admit that I was searching for something real, having painted myself into a corner of life which was most certainly not true to my genuine desires. You’ll better understand what that statement means in a few posts from now.
I landed in Reykjavik, and hitchhiked and backpacked my way up to Akureyri over the course of 6 or 7 days, camping along the way. In my first few hours in that small, northern city, I found myself sitting on a public bench, in some sort of town square. I was writing in my journal. “On summer days, this country feels like childhood autumn. Cold, ready to go inside for hot cocoa or hot apple cider. Safe. Promises of cozy warmth and love.”
A college-aged Icelandic girl approached me, sat on the bench next to me, cracked open a beer, and proceeded to start chugging it, all the while making painfully awkward eye contact with me. One glance over at her snickering group of friends across the square told me that this was a dare. I snatched the beer from her, and pretended to start drinking it. She was shocked – beer shot out of her nose as she cupped her mouth. In retrospect, I should have actually drank the beer, and then slammed the empty down onto the cobblestone (or crushed it on my forehead) while blurting out an iconic American, “FUCK YEAH!” It would have made for a better story, and I would have more aptly represented my nationality (and my fraternity). But instead, I politely gave the beer back…though I probably should have apologized for grabbing it so aggressively. I asked a few questions while she finished her beer – she still made it a point to make eye contact, though with a far more wary look in her eye.
It was a town ritual for the graduating high school class to prance around the town in small groups, daring each other to commit humorous social faux pas. I’m assuming that she’d expected an Icelander (or a normal American tourist) to have simply sat there awkwardly while she chugged her beer. Sorry babe, you picked the weird one.
The town was in a busy upheaval because of the approaching graduation festivities. A parade was to be held a day or two later, during which the whole town would congregate to watch the graduates march past them through the narrow streets, out into the main town square, to perform a ceremonial dance. I was an outside witness to the events being held. But if I’m honest, I felt more embraced by the community of Akureyri during that weekend than I typically have in my own homeland (with a few noteworthy, brief exceptions).
On my second night in Akureyri, all hell broke loose. The Icelandic national football team tied with Argentina in their first FIFA World Cup match of the year. They didn’t win. They tied. And still, the town erupted into celebration. They were already feeling jovial because of the graduation, but this event turned my stay in that town into a party. And Icelanders do party.
I don’t remember all of the specifics of that night. No, I didn’t black out, though I did have at least a few unexpected drinks thrust upon me. But there are two moments which were instantly seared into my long-term memory that night.
One of the first bars that the tide of revelers steered me towards had a dividing partition running through it. Two distinct areas were separated by a waist-high stanchion system. Or perhaps it was a decorative metal rail – again, it’s hazy. Presumably, it served to separate the bar area from the seating area in which I found myself. A man of around my age, or perhaps even a little older, was glancing around the room in my direction. His section, opposite the stanchion to mine, was crowded, and he obviously wanted to escape over to my side. There was a chair next to him. He pulled it over to the barrier, and stepped up onto the seat. Without making eye contact with me, and with one hand on the back of the chair, he reached his other out towards me. It took me a beat to understand the gesture. He was wordlessly asking me to grasp his right hand, and to help him over the barrier. And “asking” might even be the wrong word to use here. He was expecting me to do so, with apparently no thought in his mind that I might consider rejecting him. I grasped his hand with both of mine, and helped him hop the rail. I don’t even remember if he thanked me or not – he likely did – but it wouldn’t have mattered.
Many readers, I can imagine, will not fully understand why this event would have left such an indelible mark on my mind. And I doubt that I could, with words, successfully coerce those readers into the mental state in which it actually make sense. But to those of you who do inherently understand, you will know what I mean when I say that I felt that I was a part of his tribe. There was evidently a preexisting, invisible bond woven between that man and myself – an understanding that if one were in need, the other would autonomically act. My little brother and I interact in such a way, with the rightful expectation that the other will always grasp the hand, without need for cumbersome conventions or words. But this man and I were “strangers,” who hadn’t spoken once to one another – yet it would appear as though I had a brother in this place, 2,929 miles away from my actual brother, back home. And this could suggest that I might have thousands more in this place, waiting to take up the call to aid in any situation, without the need to beg, or even ask. The willingness of Icelanders to pick up a rogue, American hitchhiker only proved to affirm this suspicion.
Side note: At 5:30 a.m. one Saturday morning, some time after Iceland, I happened upon a girl who was standing next to her car with her hazards on. It was sitting idle in the middle of the normally busy road that I was driving up, on my way to my boss’ office in Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania. I pulled the truck up ahead of her, parked and turned on my own hazards. She had stalled immediately after pulling out of her driveway. Her family’s house was on a bit of a slope (in Pittsburgh, every house is on a “bit of a slope”). Shortly after I stopped, her brother saw what was happening and came out, and together we heaved the car back up into the driveway, while she steered.
As soon as the parking brake was engaged, her brother turned to me, motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, and said, “I think we have some money in the house. I’ll go get it.”
“No way.”
One other moment that night in Akureyri left an even greater impact. Actually, there were quite a few moments during that 10-day stint in Iceland, which left a haunting taste in my mouth – so much so that I’ve often danced with the idea of going back, more permanently.
Later in the evening – probably closer to midnight (I assure you, the town was still very much alive at that point – after all, it never truly gets dark in the summer that far north), a man, whom I’d already met (I actually have a series of journal entries pertaining to him), unbuttoned his tweed jacket and sat down at a grand piano, which oddly stood in the middle of a large, well-lit room of the bar that I was in. The room was crowded. The man, probably in his sixties, began to play the Icelandic national anthem, proudly singing aloud as he did so. Tucked off in my little corner (where I’d just been conversing with a few newly-made friends), I watched as the entire room instinctively gathered into one giant circle around the piano, all swaying back and forth with arms locked, singing their anthem. Young and old, they stood as one proud, continuous chain. But then, two or three of them, standing with their backs towards me, stopped singing. I think that they were older gentlemen as well (again, all a bit hazy). What I do certainly remember is that these few individuals broke open the indivisible chain, and turned towards me. And then one of the men smiled and, with his hand, beckoned me to join.
Again, I was stunned for a moment, until I finally understood what was being “asked” of me. I got up and jogged over to the opening in the ring, locked arms, and joined in. Well…no, I didn’t “join in”. The Icelandic language is one of the most difficult languages in the world to master, and I wouldn’t know the Icelandic national anthem from the Paraguayan. But back and forth I certainly did sway with them, a goofy-ass smile spread across my face, and a feeling in my heart which won’t soon be forgotten. I was a part of this tribe, connected to all of these “strangers” by a bond which I hadn’t earned, and hadn’t paid for.
I won’t pretend to be an anthropologist. I don’t understand the differences or similarities that exist between modern Icelandic and American culture, or the historical or physical environments which helped shape them. I won’t offer up any political lecture on the merits of socialist leanings within a country’s political structure (as is more typical of European nations), nor the possible demerits of a civilization that places heightened value on the progress of the individual. And I won’t try to highlight the cultural contrast that exists between urban environments and small fishing villages.
I won’t pretend to understand why the immediate instinct of a bunch of drunk Icelanders would be to treat an obvious outsider as family; nor do I know why the first instinct of so many Americans is to try to offer money when one of their brothers offers up a helping hand. I have had to turn down cash so many times, from people who simply didn’t understand that exchanging money would mar the experience that we were having – as I was taught to do by those who turned down my own offers of cash for the (many) acts of compassion which have been directed towards me.
All that I can say is that, as I sit here in this communal space on this beautiful day, and I watch the Pittsburgh bustle as it passes by, I feel no trace of that camaraderie that I felt in the north of Iceland. No exchanges which I’ve had here today have been particularly bad – though even that might have been an improvement, as I’d prefer cold, prickly steel over insular, plastic imitation. So I sit here unseen. There is no expectation of brotherhood or aid. No one dare not reach out a hand for help – at least, not without waving a dollar in the other.
The masquerade has always had cracks in it. This, we’ve all been able to sense on some deeper level. Ever since the first shopping plaza was built miles away from it’s nearest, servable community – and ever since the first Isaly’s diner was displaced by a TGI Friday’s. But the façade has finally begun to actually crumble for me. Behind the glitz and the glam, I suddenly see the studio lights, the marketers, the money counters, and – at the very back of the soundstage – the lines of shadowy figures, all excitedly rubbing their pocket books. And yet here I sit – we sit – salivating and hunched over this artificial, projected image of kinship and community, stroking that part of ourselves which desperately begs us to find whatever it was that I felt in Iceland. Even if we have to pay for it. Break bread: $125. Share a round of home brew with friends: $60. Casually talk to a stranger about the deep-seated questions and traumas of life: $100 (per session, same time next week). Play a game of VR golf with the yoga-pants girl of your artificially-inseminated dreams: $45. For everything else, there’s MasterCard™.
I wonder what might happen if I sat down on this sidewalk and silently reached out towards the next passerby. Would they give me their hand? Or would they hand me a dollar? Would that group of well-dressed 30-somethings intuitively sense my lonesome presence, off in the corner of the room? And would they break the circle, beckoning me to join?
Side Note: Being one myself, I can tell you that Americans will often surprise you with their generosity and warmth. However fragmented our culture might appear, the amount of kindness which I’ve been offered in the far-flung corners of this country is inconceivable, even to myself at times. However, not in a place like this. Never in a place like this.
“Ok Krystal, seriously, great work. But this time, I need you to really try to convince the audience – and maybe say it with a bit more raw, passionate sex appeal. Remember, the line is ‘I see you.’ Ok, everybody ready? And…ACTION!“
