high-five.

I hurriedly walked through the wet city streets, making my way home from the gym early this evening. I clutched my customary six tootsie rolls in my right hand. Yes, six. I work out, then I pick out six tootsie rolls from the huge bucket that presents itself on the way out. I always feel a little embarrassed doing it, but not enough not to do it, I guess.

I like tootsie rolls. So, sue me.

Anyway, I walked by the men who line the streets of Inwood. Some, for no apparent reason at all, and some, to sell their wares or talk to their friends.

“Oh, you live in Inwood? Are the people there so nice to you?” a friend asked me one time.

And I thought about it.

“Well, the men are very…nice, I guess you could call it. And the women–well, the women ignore me, for the most part.”

The men sit on benches, the park at their backs and Broadway right in front of them. They follow me with their eyes and sometimes say something in Spanish as I walk by. That’s the older men, anyway. The younger men are altogether different and seem to know more English, in general. They say things that make me feel flattered and objectified at once. It’s an odd feeling. They remind me of a print I got my brother when we were younger. It depicts an Italian city street lined with men who are whistling at a woman as she hurriedly walks by. I am not sure why I got that print for my brother. Other than being Italian, it’s not like either of us had much in common at all with that scenario. I think my brother asked me for it. And I hope it’s at least better than the tiny rubber man I got him for his birthday when we were younger.

He still mentions that gift. “Why did you get me that little man, Jess?!” he says. “I just don’t get why–out of everything in a toy store–you’d walk out with that little guy for me!”

And I shake my head, at a loss for an explanation.

Sort of like how I shake my head over the Italian poster, too.

I think I’m better at getting him gifts now; I like to hope so, anyway.

But today on the walk home, one of the younger men walked by me, smiled, and then tried to high-five me. Yes, a high-five. And I am generous with high-fives; I’ll give them out, no problem. Usually, anyway. Today, though, today was tough, because of my six tootsie rolls. Yes, six. Cause that was the hand he was trying to high-five. I awkwardly brought my hand in the air to meet his, fingers wrapped tightly around my tootsie rolls in a sort of clenched fist.

I high-fived him like we were playing Paper, Rock, Scissors and he was the Paper and I was the Rock.

I high-fived him like some kind of arthritic old dame.

I high-fived him like Chandler from Friends, after he’d been playing way too much Ms. Pacman and had turned his hand into a claw.

It was definitely the most awkward high-five of my life. But those tootsie rolls were worth it. All six of them.