Until today, I had a very clear ranking in my bum stories (bums being homeless people who harass others, not homeless people in general). They were:

#1: Winter 2001-2. Lunch hour, walking along 25th St, returning to office. Homeless lady walks up to me, kicks me in the shin, tells me, "watch your white ass"

#2: Winter 2002-3. Waiting on bench on a crowded downtown NQRW platform at 34th St. Suddenly, I am hugged from behind and have to bellow and push to be released. Homeless man spends remainder of time following me up the platform as bystanders give me "if he touches you again, I'll help, but for now . . " looks; he explains that he thought I was Lucia, but I am prettier, though she is not as fat as I am. Nice. Even crazy guys who reek of pee have something to say about my ass. He does not follow me on the train, though, so it's over.

. . . OR WAS IT?

This morning, who should walk onto the Q train at Canal St. but Crazy Huggy Homeless Guy. And what should he do but once again fix on me? He stood beside me singing a song of his own devising. It went:

I love you barely
I'm hooked on your love

over and over again.

So my question: does encountering the Huggy Bum again elevate story #2 to first place?

Good news! It appears that my sirenlike attraction for (not to) the unstable homeless of the city is undimmed. Saturday evening, I was traveling downtown on the 4-5 with one big bag and one small. Because I am a conscientious subway traveler, I placed the big bag on my lap and the smaller bag on top so that I did not take up more than one seat. My efforts to not be an asshole were rewarded when a particularly scented homeless gentleman came from the next car over and sat down next to me. Not the best my nose had ever been, but he had a right to be there; so far, no problem.

Then he started chattering and doing this weird leering thing. Whatever.

Then he turned on a diagonal and pushed his legs into me. I looked over to decide exactly how confrontational I could be about this, and he got his lighter out and started trying to light my bag on fire. Fortunately, his lighter was out of fluid, so no harm done.

The funny part is that I wasn't scared or angry. I was just annoyed, put out that I was being hassled. My thought was basically, "Great, now I have to give up my seat. Asshole."

It would appear that after Homeless Kicker, Huggy Bum, that guy who screamed he was going to make a coat of my skin, and, of course, the legions of subway onanists, I have become a shade less sensitive. Yay?

IT HAPPENED AGAIN.

Tonight, after I had dinner with friends who are at the tail end of a NYC visit, another of our friends wanted a photo of the group. So we asked a man who was waiting for his SO and lined up. It should be noted that this means there were five of us plus the man, plus his girlfriend who came out, plus other passersby, and that I was standing next to my friends' brother.

The man was about to press the shutter when a homeless woman walked up with a bag open to beg. Before we could even deny or give leftovers, she grabbed my stomach, twisted, and said "goochie."

THERE WERE FIVE OF US AND SHE PICKED ME.

I HAD SAID NOTHING, DONE NOTHING.

I WAS STANDING NEXT TO A GUY WHO WAS AT LEAST 5'10".

SOMEBODY WAS POINTING A GODDAMN CAMERA AT US AT THAT VERY MOMENT. (Alas, no photo was taken.)

It was funny at the time. Over dinner I'd been telling my friends about the various encounters I've had with less stable members of the NYC population, so the first words out of my mouth (after the natural reflex action of bending over and backing away) were, "A-FUCKING-GAIN!"

She kept moving and that was that. I don't think it was meant to be harmful. But
a. it actually hurt
b. I don't like strange people touching me
and
c. I'm tired of this shit.

I really don't know what it would take for me not to be accosted by homeless people at this point. Time of day, safety of locale, presence of other people, degree of bitchface I am wearing . . . none of these seem to have any effect. I have been kicked, hugged, sung to, propositioned, subjected to would-be arson, and now grabbed. (If we count the non-homeless population, I've also been screamed at and made an involuntary confidant of suicidal tendencies.) I can't figure out what the fuck it is about me that makes people--particularly those who are a heady combination of crazy and unclean--feel entitled to touch me, but I want it to stop. This disturbing yet tiresome crap is happening with greater frequency, and I'm beginning to consider it less a possibility than an eventuality that I will meet an insane person with the ability and desire to do me serious harm.

It's time for me to come into a giant pile of cash and become a hermit in Duluth. I will spend winter--otherwise known as nine months of the year--in the warm embrace of a cozy home and cable TV, emerging only to kayak in the summer. If I meet any angry hobos on my way to the lake, I will hit them with the kayak.

Until that heap of money comes in, I'm going to be brainstorming other bum-proofing strategies.

The last few weeks have been very busy. I'm behind on email to an extent that will probably necessitate some kind of general amnesty and fresh start, the school year and everything else has begun with a vengeance, and while my current crop of problems is pretty awesome, I generally feel like I stepped on a rake. (THWACK!)

But none of that excuses my egregious failure to share the incredible, delightful, and creepy moment I had on Monday:

I was walking along Washington Square minding my own beeswax when an African-American homeless gentleman in late middle age came up to me, wagged his finger in my face, and yelled, "I'M GONNA TELL RON BURGUNDY ON YOU!"

Please don't rat me out, crazy homeless guy. I promise to stay classy from now on.

Also, just as I did that time in 2002 when I heard a homeless guy who was at least 65 years old singing a really not bad rendition of "No Diggity"**, I find myself wondering about the availability of pop culture to the homeless. What weird bits and pieces of non-print media find their way to those with only intermittent access to shelter, never mind TV? I know this is just about the least of their worries. But my curiosity is roused all the same.

** I totally gave that guy money.