Diamonds are forever

Susan sat on the subway bench squeezed between two large people. They weren’t overweight, just tall, overall bigger than average. Susan was tall too, but slight and wispy, kind of like a birch tree. One small birch tree wedged between two big oaks. She accidentally looked directly at the man sitting across from her and quickly darted her eyes elsewhere. He saw her. Dammit. On the New York City subway, one does not look people in the eye. One certainly doesn’t speak to anyone unless asking for directions. Directions are allowed, but only if you don't live there. Sometimes, Susan does not pay attention to these rules.

About 7 minutes earlier, she’d been doing her best to obey rule number one. Looking down, trying to fix her eyes on something other than other people, she noticed a beautifully colored bird tattoo on the forearm of the woman next to her. “Oh, that is a beautiful tattoo,” she chirped.

The woman waited for a beat, then glanced at Susan, surprised and confused that she was being directly addressed. “Uuhh, thank you,” she sort of mumbled. Susan watched her expectantly, hoping she’d look up and explain its significance or maybe tell her where she got it done. She did not. The woman was already looking down at the phone in her hand, quietly lost in whatever digital world she was in before she’d been interrupted by our Susan, trying to start conversations with strangers.

So, it had been an awkward seven minutes and Susan was working harder than ever to concentrate on the ground, wondering if people thought she was weird; wondering if other people were smirking a little; wondering if, heaven forbid, someone thought she was new to the city.

People who live in New York City proudly state their year count like alcoholics count days without a drink. If someone has lived here over 18 years (not coincidentally the same amount of time it takes to mature from infant to adult) or moved here in their youth, they are a New Yorker. 11-17 years gets an honorary title but they're not quite there yet. 5-10 years is above average and could earn a nod. Under 5 years is new to the city, which is just above “tourist” status. Native New Yorkers get “wows” and whistles. There’s an unspoken reverence among city dwellers that is held for anyone born and raised in the five boroughs. They are FROM New York. It should be noted that, until now, this was not written anywhere and that anyone outside of the city would consider two years or so plenty of time to earn the title of New Yorker. They'd be wrong, but there's no need to correct them. City dwellers know the truth. No one tells them. They just know.

Susan is a New Yorker. She has been here for 22 years. She knows the rules well and spent the first 17 years strictly adhering to them, earning her status fair and square. If one wants to be a New Yorker, one must act like a New Yorker. However, once New Yorker status is actually achieved, freedom to break the unwritten rules without admonishment is (silently) granted. For instance, when waiting to cross the street, tourists patiently stand on the sidewalk and watch for the walk signal. New Yorkers stand as far out into the street as possible without getting hit. They will jaywalk if the opportunity presents itself, and they know the timing of the lights so well, that they can begin walking ahead of the signal, fully confident they will not be smashed to bits by the cars barreling towards them. And, though it is not acknowledged in any way, every red light is a race and the first person who steps out is the winner. Now that she’s passed the 18 year mark, Susan gets to take it easy. Sometimes she goes for walks, puts on her game face, and racks up wins. She's very good at the crossing-the-street game. But, sometimes she hangs out towards the back of the crowd and strolls across an avenue. And do you know why Susan gets to choose these things at her leisure? Because everyone knows REAL New Yorkers do whatever the hell they want.

Other important NYC games with very specific rules that one can only learn instinctively after living there long enough are "Waiting for the train", "Hailing a cab," and "Walking on a crowded sidewalk." But those are for another story. Right now, Susan is trying her best to reestablish herself as definitely not new.

People are silently judging her. Those two in the corner seat are snickering at how dumb she looked while she was basically being ignored by someone she'd just complimented. One woman down at the end of the car is looking away, clearly embarrassed for having witnessed the rookie mistake. The man on the other side of her is on alert, nervous she might try some of that nonsense with him, but he's ready. He will shut it down immediately, maybe even adding a shared eye roll with someone else. That's okay too, by the way. Eye contact made specifically to commiserate or smirk at another train rider's poor etiquette is allowed in some circumstances, but it can't happen often. Furthermore, when it does happen, the participants will talk about it for the remainder of the day, and possibly the next day, to make sure all coworkers, gym buddies, roommates, and significant others are aware that on that day, a brief but real human connection was made among the sea of nameless faces that is New York City. It may even warrant a text to mom.

Susan stared hard at the subway floor where a small sparkle caught her eye. Upon closer inspection, she saw it was a diamond rolling back and forth with the motion of the train. It wasn't huge, but it was bright and cut perfectly round with a cone-shaped bottom. It looked like it had fallen out of a setting on a ring, maybe. At the next stop, the man sitting across from her got off the train, leaving an open seat. She quickly stood up, swiped the stone off the ground, and glided into the abandoned spot. She breathed deeper and immediately forgot about the tattoo incident and all the disdainful eyes in the subway car, which is good because the truth is no one really noticed. No one really cares. And when that women gets home tonight, as she's putting her bag down on the end table by the couch, she'll nonchalantly say something like, "Someone told me they liked my tattoo today," and her partner will say something like, "Oh, that's nice." And they'll both feel a little happy about a real human connection in the sea of nameless faces and that will be the end of that.

The end.

Epilogue.

Susan walked into a quiet apartment. The lights were off. Her roommate was not home. She smiled and hurried to the kitchen. She grabbed a cutting board from the cubby next to the refrigerator and placed it on the kitchen counter. She rummaged through the junk drawer, pushing aside rubber bands, strips of twisty ties, loose batteries, and dried up pens, and found the old hammer her father had given her years ago when she got her first apartment. She pulled the little, sparkling stone from her pocket and centered it on the cutting board. Then, she swung the hammer down hard and smashed it as hard as she could. Nothing happened. She got a little excited, pretty sure that if it didn't break, it meant it was a real diamond. She decided to be sure, she'd hit it again. She held her breath and swung again, this time with everything she had. The little, sparkling piece of junk shattered into a thousand pieces, sending fragments of glittering plastic all over the kitchen. It was not a diamond. Susan sighed, put away the hammer, rinsed the cutting board, and swept the kitchen. Sitting down on a stool by the counter, she took her phone out of her bag and texted her mother to tell her all about the conversation she had on the train that day with some woman about her tattoo.