My bare ass hit the New York City pavement
This is the short story of one of the many times I've fallen onto the NYC sidewalks
New Yorkers are no strangers to trash on our sidewalks. We archaically set our clear bagged trash along the street. These trash mountains are hotbeds for rats, bugs, and probably diseases. During the winter, they are hidden underneath city snow. It’s hard to tell what is trash and what is ice accumulation. In the summer, there’s no escaping the trash. The humidity of the city and the typical lack of any breeze creates an all encompassing smell the moment New Yorkers step outside. That’s why all the wealthy citizens flee for the Hamptons, to escape the stench.
I’m confronted with sidewalk trash every single day, but on Saturday, August 14, 2021, I saw it up close and my eyes were opened.
A heatwave hit New York last August. It was 100 + degrees outside. The local government opened cooling centers and ConEd recommended we charge our devices in case of mass outages. It was a weekend where my only escape was to absorb the free air conditioning at a museum or drown my sorrows with a cold beer at my favorite bar. On day 3 of the heatwave, I opened my fridge and was horrified to see empty shelves. A grocery trip was in my future.
A trip to Trader Joe’s in Lower Manhattan in the best weather was not a fun task. I routinely waited in hour long lines that weaved throughout the trendy grocery store. Instead of perusing with my cart, I hurried to the end of the line and collected my items as we moved aisle by aisle. If I left my cart to go grab a sweet potato in the produce section, my fellow shoppers would not honor it as a placeholder. An overpacked Trader Joe’s during a heatwave was sure to produce cranky customers. I was not excited.
I dressed appropriately to prepare for the horror that was about to entail. Or so I thought. It was 2 PM on a Saturday and my phone told me the “real feel temp” was 102 degrees. I threw on a billowing black dress. It was a staple in my closet and perfect for a hot day. It was breathable, fashionable, and something I could wear with Birkenstocks or tennis shoes. I chose my Birks, because even my feet were sweaty and the less coverage the better. Little did I know, this outfit would be responsible for a big downfall.
Several assumptions went into the outfit mistake. First, I wore a thong because I never wore biker shorts under dresses, and I assumed it was okay to do so. I was too comfortable with the possibility of strangers seeing my ass. Second, I assumed the dress was the same length as the last time I wore it. And lastly, I assumed there would be absolutely no breeze to blow my dress.
On the walk to the store, I realized my fatal mistakes. The wind was by no means blustering, but there were occasional gusts that blew up my dress. I noticed the dress was about half an inch shorter than the last time I wore it, due to shrinking at the laundromat. I quickly realized I preferred to not show my butt cheeks to my neighbors and walked timidly to the store while holding the dress to prevent such from happening. I was sweating from the weather and my frustration at my lack of outfit preparedness.
At Trader Joe’s, I over shopped. That was the flaw of being forced in line the second I entered the store. I grabbed items just in case I needed them. If I were able to return to prior sections after really thinking on the items in my cart, I would’ve carried a lighter load home. Instead, I checked out with two heavy bags, a full backpack, and a loose pack of paper towels. My arms were too full for me to mind my mini dress.
I exited Trader Joe’s and headed west. At the intersection of 14th and 1st Ave, I jaywalked and hurried to get to the sidewalk before a coming car passed. The next series of events happened all at once in a matter of seconds, but felt as though they occurred for an hour.
Simultaneously, as a gust of wind whipped down 1st Ave, I stepped up onto the curb of the sidewalk, felt the hem of my dress fly up, slipped out of one of my Birkenstocks, stepped onto a chip bag, heard a woman let out a sharp scream, felt a strap on my reusable Target tote bag snap, dropped all of my groceries and fell backwards onto the pavement. As I tried to gain my composure, I realized that my bare ass was touching a New York City subway grate.
In slow motion, I looked around and saw that I was among the trash I always complained about. I just missed falling into a trash pile. I was a foot away from sitting on a used condom and contracting an STI. My bare ass was probably touching someone’s pee. I felt the subway grates imprinting onto my booty.
Limes and a white onion rolled towards the bus stop as the paper towels headed towards the street. The flow of the foot traffic did not stop. Most of my fellow New Yorkers glanced my way and kept moving. A man in a button up and tie grabbed my loose produce off the dirty sidewalk and said, “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“Yes, yes I’m fine, thank you!” I said, exasperated and overwhelmed.
“Yeah, you really just missed the curb there didn’t you?” He said as he handed me my soiled limes.
“I really have no idea what happened,” I said.
He offered me a hand and I shakily stood up. My legs were wobbly and my heart was racing. Falling in New York is akin to falling on stage. I was nearly a hundred people’s “What did you see happen in the city today” story.
After I was back on my feet, the kind stranger helped me pick up the rest of my things and encouragingly told me, “Don’t let this ruin your day!” I smiled and thanked him, all while knowing that there was no way I could not NOT let this ruin my day. I made skin contact with the grossest surface on earth. After spending nearly $100, my precious produce rolled around the sidewalk on which many humans shit.
I gave a slight wave and moved to the nearest building’s stoop. I reorganized my bags, shoving everything I could into my backpack. While I carefully walked home, I called my mom. I had to share my tale to rid myself of the embarrassment. She cackled and advised me to scrub my produce when I got home. I didn’t have the funds to repurchase groceries, so that would have to be enough. I took her advise and spent the next half hour washing my produce, my hands, and my ass.
After a couple of hours, I felt fully recovered from my fall. I knew that the best way to face this embarrassment and fear was to walk the dirty sidewalk again. I pulled on biker shorts to go underneath my dress and headed to the the liquor store. I purchased vodka and ginger beer, went home and drank a Moscow Mule topped with my sidewalk infused limes.
This wasn’t the first time I fell in New York and it probably won’t be the last time, but it was one of the first moments I was confronted with how disgusting our city really is. Our sanitation processes are mediaeval. Cities across the globe have figured out how to routinely collect trash without it coexisting on the sidewalks. Chicago has alleys and Florence has bins imbedded into the street, yet day after day, the New York City government asks us to place our trash onto our sidewalks. This is unsightly of course, but it also compromises our already minuscule public space.
This isn’t an op-ed. I have no solution for the above problem. I’m just a New Yorker who fell onto the ground and saw the grit and grime of the sidewalks that many of our neighbors are forced to sleep on, and I know that we can do better. We can modernize our sanitation processes, clean our streets and provide housing for all. Maybe our elected officials need to fall onto the ground while carrying home a week’s full of groceries. Maybe their bare asses need to hit the pavement to finally be motivated to act on this. I know that worked for me.