Scratch and Sniff Feminist
Short Story-Flash Nonfiction
I am invisible to the train-conductor, the barista too. I revel in my invisibility; there’s power in choosing it. I enjoy not having to smile or hyper focus on not coming off as flirty when attempting to be a polite fucking human being. Invisibility is an underrated freedom.
Invisible me watches the old lady on the train. Being able to watch others freely is another perk of invisibility. She has a tattoo on her right calf. I want to bend over to scratch and sniff it. The scent would tell me everything about her life. I shape my mouth to ask her how long it's been since her last tattoo and if she has a tramp stamp too. I wonder if it was called a tramp stamp then. I say neither. The tattoo talks to me and tells me she is a feminist. I can tell by her scent.
Feminists smell like coffee and champagne. I know because even invisible it is how I smell too.
I crawl off the train; a demoness in casual work wear. Head held high emitting pheromones of don't-fuck-with-me.
Midtown Manhattan is a cesspool of dead dreams, dreamers, and the lost. My pheromones sometimes get lost in the cesspool’s scent. On occasion there is the random man who sees through my invisibility. It is never used for kindness.
I weave through the crowds of Herald Square. I am an expert at slithering through bodies. Sometimes I forget that I am a person walking through other people who have traumas, dramas, and whose lives may be epic tales waiting to be cracked open and consumed. If I focus on their stories I may be late for work.
I balance on the edge of the sidewalk with the other experts at slithering through bodies; we know instinctively when the light will turn so we do not have to look to see. I step out onto the street bopping my head aggressively to the latest R&B. I am jerked out of my rhythm of instinct and invisibility by a pair of calloused hands.
I know I am still invisible because all the other people keep walking. I look down at my elbow only to realize I have been grabbed by a stranger on his bike. Men have a way of ruining your rhythm.
He grins as if we are old friends. I tell him to fuck off. He ignores me the way he should’ve ignored me from the beginning. I release more pheromones to ward off the weirdos and pray that this time it works.
__________
Today I have decided I do not want to be invisible. I layer on makeup. Slide primer across my skin and pack on foundation. I slide the bright red lipstick across my plump lips; emerge from my house a beacon.
The train-conductor smiles at me today. He flirts. I smile back pretending to have never seen his eyes glaze over me daily for months. My invisibility then was a choice… right?
I know I am more beautiful than usual. I can tell by the eyes that linger on me longer than they ever would. The eyes and kindness are overwhelming and uncomfortable. I remember why I prefer being invisible. Men have a way of ruining things we do for ourselves.
My newfound visibility opens doors, literally. I have noticed a 50% increase in door holding rates from strangers, both men and women. I’ve also noticed a 100% increase in smile rate to door holding. Even serving me seems like their pleasure.
The thought makes me think twice. Am I shallow for using my visibility like this? I throw the thought down a deep well and smile at the police officer. His grin spreads across his face like butter in a hot cast iron skillet. It stays there for longer than necessary. I turn away and prepare to slither through the crowds again.
Only I don’t have to. The crowd parts and I glide. Seductively and drunk off my visibility. It is so much better to be seen by choice. But I am visible to undesirable purveyors too. I sense them standing too close and looking too long at places that are not my face. I return the favor with a cold stare. Most of them look away ashamed.
I wonder if they are ashamed because my stare strips them uncomfortably naked; tells them that I am equal. Sometimes I think they know it is because I am choosing to be perceived and that terrifies them.
Written in 2019 this piece was published in “Fast Fierce Women: 75 Essays of Flash Nonfiction” an anthology by Gina Barreca in 2022.
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Loved this, NJ. The ability to turn on and off one's "visibility" is a powerful one.
Excellent observational piece, really enjoyed it.
To answer your question, as a gnarly old guy I don't enjoy pretty privilege but I guess there could be other kinds of privilege going on.