Djelloul Marbrook

There are many ways to walk down a street in New York City.

You can walk like the Grim Reaper, caring less.

You can walk as if people are supposed to notice you and reward them with an ostentatious, What’re you lookin’ at?

Or you can smile at the faces and demeanors you like and hope for the best. That’s not unlike taking an experimental drug. If it works it just may give you a new lease on life. If it doesn’t work, you’re just another unsung hero.

There are many other styles. Oblivious is good, if you’re seven feet tall or old and brittle.

Muttering-loony is cool, too. Like the lovely middle-aged lady I recently found myself behind on Park Avenue across from Saint Bartholomew’s. She was singing to herself in an alluring contralto and when she noticed me behind her she sang, I’ll let you follow me, old man, let you, let you follow me. I ignored her and felt lousy lousy about it, and I’ve been thinking ever since of that saying about entertaining angels unawares.

If you’re beautiful, you can pretend you hadn’t noticed or you can stare daggers at anyone who does notice, or, if you’re blessed, you can reward notice with a gracious smile, thereby revealing that you know beauty is not invariably a blessing. I like strangers who acknowledge each other in the street. They’re not pursuing an agenda.

Cell phones are the latest excuse for pretending you’re the center of the universe and its minions should get out of your way.

Strollers—have you noticed there seem to be more twins these days?—are routinely used as battering rams, less by nannies and more by mommies. I’ve seen some narrow misses and a few hits. I call such batterers stroller Nazis.

Three young suits walking abreast usually constitutes a bulldozer. Only derring-do messengers on bikes defy them. They defy everybody, even cops. I have no compassion for young suits who fail to give an inch. I hope their taxes are audited.

Watch out for distinguished old men with umbrellas. They have been known to insert their folded umbrellas in the spokes of bikes while the rest of humanity cheers with one hand clapping.

Either your navigational gear is in good shape and you use it, or you pretend it’s in the shop for repairs or you prefer dead-reckoning and use friendly faces for channel markers.

But one thing is certain. The way you walk the streets says a lot about you, and friends and strangers alike ignore it at their peril. Similarly, the way you walk the streets shapes you. You may think you’re your real self when you arrive somewhere, but you’re more your real self getting there.—DM