News Stand Men & Coffee Cart Guys (and the occasional fruitseller, too)

It must be something about me. It's just gotta be. I know it has to be something I bring upon myself, because I know for a fact that not every other woman is groped, fondled and talked dirty to by the newsstand men, coffee cart guys and fruit sellers of New York City.

Two years ago I stopped in front of 1411 Broadway at a fruit seller to buy a plum and a bunch of grapes to bring up to my mother's office so we could nosh while I visited. As I dug in my purse for the loose change that always jangles around in the bottom, the fruit seller - a tall pock-marked Arab - told me in great detail what he would like to do to various parts of my body. It started with a massage and I think ended up with... something... in my mouth. I stood quietly staring at him as these mottled words oozed from his grotesque, cracked yet slimy lips. I let him finish. And when he did finish I pulled the bottom apple from the pile and walked away, grapes and plum in tow, unpaid for, as the skinny Arab chased escape grannysmiths down 40th street hollering "Yoo Beeech!"

Cut to nine months ago when I met Harrid and Ttolit. These are the south Indian newsstand guys who sell me my perfectly sweetened coffee and a New York Times each morning before I board my fourteen hour train to the City. (Okay, so it's only 55 minutes.) Ttolit is the brains of the duo, possessing a certain peaceful quietude, while Harrid is the front man, slightly more silly and outgoing. I've taken the time to ask where they're from and demand to call them by their real names (instead of Nick and Dale, which they first offered), so I guess we kinda became friends. We always smile to each other. They show me some extra consideration. I requested they carry yogurt, and weeks later, they started carrying yogurt! When I switched from sugar in my coffee to splenda, Ttolit smiled and reminded me, "Little bit at a time, little bit at a time", and Harrid had mercifully stopped pushing "buhttad rrrrroll?" on me.

However, Harrid did take to grabbing my hand has I paid for my coffee. I'd thrust forward the two crumpled bills I'd prepared in route to the station, and he'd take the time to grab my entire fist, not just the bills, and give it a firm squeeze, before relieving me of my two dollars. The first time I smiled, unsure of exactly what this game was. I thought of Mr. Skinny-Arab-pock-marked-guy and his nasty muttered monologue and was immediately uncomfortable by Harrid's scratchy hand-grab. But Harrid is my friend! He and Ttolit are my buddies. They're not gross. If Harrid thinks it's okay to grab a woman's hand as she's simply trying to pay for her morning coffee, then maybe he's just especially fond of me, and perhaps some cultural disparity would allow this strange intimacy. Plus, I pride myself on my lack of physical boundaries in odd situations and Harrid my pal was not going to be the one to break this hippie-hell-with-it attitude I like to hang onto.

Then, the next day, he grabbed my wrist with one hand, and my money with the other, laughed heartily, then released me. Again, I smiled. Game on.

In the next few weeks I tried every means of evading the Harrid grab. I'd make sure to have two bills ready and I'd whip them down on the counter, thereby eliminating the need for us to make any exchange, but instead of setting my coffee down, he'd hand it directly to me and seize that opportunity to grab some part of my arm. So then another day I'd pretend to have my hands way too full, and say, "Just put it down" while I rifled in my bag for some imaginary train pass or a cigarette. Somehow, though, he'd manage to put his hand, calloused and hard, on mine for the morning squeeze. I even dragged Andrew into the station with me one morning to see if his imposing presence would hinder Harrid, and shockingly, it did not. I was certain at this point that this grab was not lewd after all! It was but a mere gesture of friendliness, and I reconciled to just continue smiling, and to stop my ridiculous dance of avoidance. Sadly, though, the grab continued, and somehow it started to feel more aggressive. He'd grab and actually hold, so that I had to forcibly remove myself to leave his newsstand, and he would just smile/laugh, tossing back his fat round head in amusement. So I stopped buying coffee before the train.

I'd sit drowsily on the LIRR, newspaperless and coffeeless for 55 minutes awaiting the moment when I would disembark, flee to the subway and emerge on 17th street to make a bee line for the coffee cart near my office.

Day 1:
A troll-like creature of ambiguous Persianish descent, smiling broadly under a gigantic black bushy mustache, pushes his head through the opening in the plexi-glass and asks me in a thick, heavy accent, "What woood yoo liyke?" I tell him, just a small coffee, please. One splenda and milk. He commences talking to me, prattling really, trying in vain to sell me donuts and rolls. I decline politely. He persists. I decline. Before I know it, he's attempting to make a philosophical statement about happiness as it relates to morning carbohydrates, and I thank him for my coffee, pay him his $.50 and leave.

Day 2:
Repeat of day one.

Day 3:
I avoid Harrid. I also avoid the mustachioed troll. As I walk down 7th avenue and near the corner at 18th street the troll calls out, "Hi Honey! Coffee for you today?!" The four pedestrians waiting in front of his cart turn to look at me. I smile, and turn toward the cart. I am a sucker, but a coffeeless sucker, and so I relent.

Um.... sure. Just one small coffee, please, with one splenda and milk.

Repeat of day one.

Day 4:
I buy coffee at the Le Pain Quotidian on 7th Avenue. No one grabs me. No one calls out to me. Somehow, I spend $7 and leave the store. The troll calls out to me (Hi Honey!) as I pass his cart in a pitifully ineffective wide arc. I smile, show him I’ve already gotten coffee, and continue around the block with him shouting after me to come over and talk to him, encouraging me to order an egg sandwich.

Day 5:
I cautiously approach the cart on 17th street, as it seems the troll is away and a younger man is manning the cart. I step up to the window and look up, and the troll appears from nowhere. “Halllllooooo!” he says brightly from behind his bushy moustache. I order my small coffee. He says, "Egggg sanwich?" And all the sudden, the idea of an egg sandwich appeals to me and tell him, "Sure! Why not. An egg sandwich on a roll please. No butter."

He begins giving instructions to a younger, taller troll who is cracking eggs on a flat top grill in the cart. He gives so many instructions I cannot imagine what sort of egg sandwich would require so much directive. I watch as the two Arabs interact, the littler older one barking orders, the younger one responding in a very, "Yes, I know, please shut up" sort of tone.

And some juice, please. A small orange juice. This is me, adding to my order. At this point the troll turns to me, puts one elbow on the stainless steel shelf between himself and me, leans down and bit and says in a most lascivious manner, softly, "I'll geeeve eet to yooo."

I remain still, but something in me moves. Did he? Was he just...? I couldn't be sure. I wasn't sure. I didn't react outwardly in the slightest, but still the troll sensed my apprehension.

"The juice," he corrected, now righting himself to stand straight,"I give it to you the juice."

Yes. The juice. I was right. In retrospect to just a few moments ago it's without question, he was being lascivious. I stayed to collect my egg sandwich, which turned out to have shells in it, and haven’t gone back to the cart on 17th street since. I now walk past him each morning and he doesn’t acknowledge my presence in the slightest.

I’ve resumed my relationship with Harrid and Ttolit, and I begin each morning’s commute with coffee, a New York Times and nice, firm handshake with a barnacle-handed Indian.