chix again

I recently moved to a neighborhood with many apartment buildings, a bit of outdoor recreation, and plenty of shopping opportunity. I thought I'd blend in with the woodwork, not really be seen as I toodle around hither and tither. Just another Common Man, apple in the face and all, walking and shopping among the masses, unremarkable, nondistinct. Who would've thunk that they'd be hanging around Trader Joe's, milling in hair product stores, or sitting idly on park benches heads up, watching?

There they are: the singlets, the women who shop while scanning who's behind them, the ones with eyes seemingly on the backs of their heads, or maybe concealed in their oversized watches or Timbuktu biker bags.

I've been walking around my neighborhood lately, occasionally purchasing products, often pawing a cup of Peet's that ignites my system. Once in a while, I find an open stool there upon which I place my watchful self, and there I plop and view the world that strolls by on the sidewalk. The families are plenty, single dads and moms, buddies who yammer over a slice of pizza across the street, or the homeless dudes who hold out mottled Street Sheets and an empty donation Starbucks cup. Even the occasional EMTs or police officers all hot and confident in their deep blue wool and shiny leather uniforms saunter the street and nearby cafes embuing us with that sense of protectiveness and precautionary safety. Those who are women in uniform are often ensconced in conversation with their uniformed brethren. They are not the ones with the eyes.

It's the women, the chix, the bespectacled woman with the wandering eye who I see scanning the crowds, the aisles of cereal, the card shop's humor section, the rows of hair products before me. They are the watchers. I know this sounds paranoid, but it's happened on a number of different occasions.
It's like a porn movie without the cheesy chika-bow-wow music: she's taller than I, a page-boy cut brunette clad in a navy waist coat, hipster jeans and cool Adidas shoes. Her skin tells me she's younger too, none of the crows feet age lines that carve up my eyes. She reaches up, over her head for a 24 ounce bottle of Biolage spray and examines its contents like it's a nutritional chart. Then, as she replaces it, she tilts her head slightly in my direction; is she wondering if I need to pass by, is she really reading labels, or she peering in my direction?

I'm searching for a mousse, preferably Paul Mitchell; all the white bottles look alike to me and because I'm officially in the reading glasses age, I squint to read what each 12 point font indicates upon the labels. As I see her cocked head, I worry the product I seek will be near her and I'll have to interact. I sniffle from unease. From my sketchy peripheral vision, I see that she's reached towards a hip-level shelf and withdraws some other brand, some other type of bottle, this time it looks like a molding gel. Far from the spray she originally sought.
I find my product, look in her direction and see that she's smiling. I give the ole 'up nod, sniffle and turn. She smiles again. I'm uncomfortable. This is a hair product store. I pay and leave. About eight paces beyond I hear the tinkling bell of the shop; she's leaving too.

I went for a run the other day and saw in the near distance sitting on a park bench a solo chik. She was cool too, with her dark her pushed up into a peak - she needed a haircut - oversized jeans, boarder sneakers, and a black leather jacket with yellow hoodie poking out behind her neck. Her eyes were partially concealed by sun-shade glasses; nerd glasses I like to call them (only the nerdy kids wore them, even if I do understand their practicality). Beside her was her reusable TJ's bag and in her hand some sort of multi-purpose phone, perhaps a Droid, maybe an iPhone. She stared at its shiny, black face; her own bland, sealed lip expression demonstrated her boredom or dismay with it. It appeared as if she wanted it to ring or do something significant like expand into a tool, a skateboard, or a piece of cake. Young enough, cake would not affect her metabolism or weight. She glanced up as I rhythmically huffed towards her. She watched me plod by.

As I passed by, I hoped that she didn't call someone to report that she'd spied a lezzie sporting tights and a mismatched long-sleeved shirt jogging around the lake or that she wanted to hang and see if I'd return. I didn't want to know that the glance she gave me as I approached followed me as I curved the edge of the lake. About 30 minutes later, when I rounded the final corner, she was walking opposite me. She looked up, gave me the up nod and smiled. I breathed a 'hi' and kept going. Despite my fatigue, I actually quickened my pace.

Tonight, I encountered one outside my building. I haven't lived here long, but in the short time I've never seen anyone but my landlord hover in the perimeter of my building; he lives in Fresno, a land far, far away from this dwelling. I worked late and approached my walkway with the same nonchalance as always: I never see anyone so I'm not usually on alert. The sensor lights illuminated before I approached my door's steps which I thought odd. They're sensitive but not that sensitive. As I plodded up the walkway, I was mildly startled by the presence of a tallish blond, wrapped in a thick, western leather, sheepskin coat, the kind the Marlboro man would wear. Sky blue scrubs and clogs covered her legs and feet. She appeared as surprised as I to see someone approaching; she croaked into her cell phone, "Hey, it's me. What's up? You okay?" I didn't know if I should've said hello in that moment or ignore her. Seemed an odd place to be having a rather personal phone conversation, unless of course she was really speaking to me. She stood, head downcast on the walkway just beyond my front steps, between the two rose bushes where the pathway light shone upon her plastine shoes and cast a eery glow upon her face. She lifted her head as I stepped up the steps. Ill at ease again, I of course pulled out my key which unlocks my office door. This does not fit into my lock. After taking a moment to stare at its incapacity to open my door, I swung the appropriate key around my finger, slid it into the lock and entered.

I didn't know what amazed me more, that there was another human who lived here in this building or that she's a chik, like me, or so my gaydar tells me.

These women, these ogling singlets with their sidelong gazes imbalance me. It's not the same nervousness I get, those crazy swarming butterflies when there's whoosh! beauty before me. Oh, no, that's one of those blushing sensations and I do my best not to stumble and fall all over myself with an introduction. That's an okay feeling.

These are different, like a visual Craigslist Personal ad, without the aggravating text script ("U r 1 hot bayb") or self-aggrandizing descriptions that often result in a well worn self-help book summary or an external appearance not unlike those wacky, wobbly fun house mirrors. These are the ads on the sleeves by way of the furtive, coy glances, the pawing of same-brand products ("I like peanut butter stuffed pretzels too!"), and cupped hands around half empty containers of chai tea while peeking through their mod glasses. These are singlet chiks, singlet women and they are everywhere - as I discovered before - but now I'm noticing that they are in places I least expected: where I shop and live. And I feel funny around them, awkward.

It's funny, but now that one has spotted where I live, not that I'm famous or anything, but just that I'm another in the statistic of a few, I feel like I'm going to have a little Yelp numbered pin poking out of my building that denotes An Older Chik Lives Here! Marked for all to see and discover.

And I thought I was anonymous among the masses.