A Stranger’s Smile
“I never thought of myself as shy.” My classmates stared at me, most likely searching my face for hints of nervousness or a tell that I was lying. Professor Teegan encouraged that sort of thing.
“Not shy. Shy isn’t what I meant. Not quite how I would put it. It’s just – you don’t behave as boldly as the characters you’ve auditioned for – and I know it’s in there. That’s a big part of why you haven’t been getting parts.” That’s exactly what I wanted to hear, standing in front of a class of near strangers, a group of 9 students not nearly as talented as myself, nearly as sure of their own undiscovered genius. I definitely wanted them to know Professor Teegan’s interpretation of what I had said to him in confidence.
“I have been getting parts. Just not the ones I want.” I immediately regretted my assertive and emphatic tone. I didn’t have to prove anything to this guy or these amateurs.
“Now, see… that was bold.” The other students had the gall to chuckle at my character being publicly tweaked. I inwardly vowed to laugh outright when it was their turn. I noted that when they were picked to be chastised in ‘the rounds’, as dubbed by Professor Teegan, I would laugh as they shifted their weight from foot to foot, as their shoes rustled against the cheap carpet, and as they tripped down the uneven wooden steps on the way to their seats, as I had. I would not get that chance today. ”Pay attention to the things that you do, the choices you make. Come back to class next week with a list of observations about yourself. Take notes on the areas in your life where you could … step out, be noticed, take a risk for goodness sake. And make one change before you come back – just one. It doesn’t have to be anything big – or even anything that anyone would notice. Just do it – and remember how it feels.” Professor Teegan looked around the class, making sure each of the 9 other students knew that this instruction applied to them as well. “You can take your seat now.” Professor Teegan encouraged us to clap at each other’s embarrassment.
I rushed out of class without speaking to anyone. Once past the glares of my classmates, I followed my daily routine and walked along the far left side of the stairs, making sure my arm grazed the rail the whole way down. I was fully conscious of not bumping anyone as I exited the building. I headed to Borders to jot what I had noticed about myself in the minutes since class ended – that physical contact with strangers is gross and uncomfortable and I noted with absolute certainty that others must feel the same way. I took the far left side of the escalator, running the last three steps, as there was a sense of urgency emanating from those behind me. I refused to turn and acknowledge them.
Each table in the already crowded Borders café was occupied by at least one person, some bold strangers sharing spaces with people they obviously didn’t know. I retreated in search of another place to sit – alone and uninterrupted.
The Children’s section was empty – it was 11 in the morning; but I didn’t want to seem like a freak or a pedophile, crouched on a tiny chair in the middle a colorful and plush mat intended for small children who weren’t there. The unoccupied African-American Literature aisle and its overstuffed leather chair were a good fit. I took out my small, bold silver notebook, purchased from the very Borders I sat in, knowing a staff member could have mistakenly thought I had stolen it. I felt criminal and jotted that down.
I wrote about smashing myself into the left sides of stairwells and escalators and elevators to avoid brushing others, who I noticed, over time, tended to use only the middle and right sides, and about scribbling exciting turns of phrase from audition sides and New Yorker Fiction & Poetry pieces into the pages of not-yet-purchased 3-subject notebooks, hoping that the student or writer or actor who happened upon them would be inspired, as I had been. Borders was clever enough to bind their journals in plastic, preventing the spread of free and mass inspiration.
On the train ride home, I wrote about insisting to stand in nearly empty train cars if the opposite-facing seat, where I could take out my journal, or do homework, or move my elbows without bumping impatient strangers who were convinced that I had elbows for the sole purpose of bumping strangers on the train, was taken.
I wrote these things about myself until I felt pitiful and small.
Professor Teegan assured me that my observations were honest and human and brilliant. Brilliant. “Here’s your next assignment.” He looked around the room, again letting the other students know that this was their assignment as well. ”Make a stranger smile before our next meeting.” A groan of disapproval made its way through the class. “Make a stranger smile.” He smiled. I didn’t. “It sounds like the hardest thing in the world to do… but it’s not.” His corduroys rustled as he hopped around the room, landing so lightly as not to make a sound upon impact. That must have been practiced. “It’s the best feeling in the world to make a stranger smile.” I could see that he believed what he was saying, which I found amusing. “To make a person, who has never met or spoken to you before, and may never do so again, smile.” The room was silent as he paced in front for several seconds longer than any of us felt comfortable enduring. “That’s your assignment for next week. Share with the class how you did it, and how your failed and successful attempts felt. Remember that feeling and bring it to class with you.”
I hadn’t anticipated any failed attempts before his announcement that our assignment would include sharing them. It didn’t sound like the hardest thing in the world, but it did sound like something that I would not enjoy. On the train, I dropped my journal, bending over in front of a man wearing a suit in what I suspect was a custom-ordered shade of executive black. His left eyebrow lifted less out of arousal, than concern for my journal. I jotted, standing, that I felt homely and defeated – and that this gentleman was most obviously gay. Professor Teegan did not assure me that this observation was brilliant or honest, but concluded that it, if nothing else, was human.
I had failed my assignment for the week, as did a third of my class. I tried to submit the smiles that my anonymous scribblings must have engendered. Professor Teegan informed me that those didn’t count. “Be bold! You can do this.” He shook his hands far too passionately. “Haven’t you ever smiled at a stranger?” This question was not rhetorical.
“I guess.”
“No! Seriously!” He quickly rolled onto his toes and back on to the balls of his feet. “Think of a time where you smiled at someone you didn’t know.” He grew louder with each manic syllable. ”Why did you do it? What did they do to make you smile? Was there an exchange? It wasn’t magic, you know.” Again, I was at a loss in front of these 9 near strangers and none of them were smiling. He allowed me to sit and think alone in the back left side of the room.
“So, Ms. Parker, I know you’ve done it. Tell us all how it happened.” Each of the other 9 students turned back, visibly surprised that he hadn’t let me off the hook.
I can’t account for why I chose to enable this man. “It happened one day when I was walking down Oak, on the way to my Movement 102 last semester, just came up from the subway, and I saw this girl walking toward me and I know I’d seen before, but I couldn’t remember where. I don’t really live around here and last semester was my first, so…. I couldn’t really place where I’d seen her. And I guess I was looking at her pretty hard cause she looked annoyed like ‘why the heck are you staring at me like that’. So I looked away really fast but I kept looking back at her of course – I mean, she was headed right towards me. Anyway, we were just about to pass each other and I figured, better stop staring this girl down. I pretended to fiddle around with my Ipod until we passed each other, but I HAD to look back, cause these things always come to you at the last minute. And she freakin’ flips me off and runs down into the subway.” I shrugged. “She was obviously crazy, but that made me smile.” And for whatever reason my story made Professor Teegan smile too.
“NOW THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” He wasn’t wearing any shoes. “You can do this!”
I rode the bus home that afternoon instead of the train, sitting down next to a clearly nomadic man, too far involved with his dementia to be bothered by my closeness, and began watching the backward moving people on the other side of the window. I gave up on them quickly; they were no help to me. The guy sitting across from me in bright sneakers, tight jeans and a gaudy hoodie, was unaware that he was bobbing his head out of sync with the music I was listening to. Everyone else was pretending not to watch the small, frail hands of an old lady knitting so furiously she took no notice of the attention. A woman, occupied by her three children imagining the shapes and dialogues of passing clouds loudly enough for the rest of us to hear, audibly anticipated her arrival to wherever they were headed.
I stood without warning, surprising my fellow passengers and myself, and announced, “Good Morning. I’m Rachel. I’m in an acting class at State and I’m supposed to make a stranger smile this week.” The bus stopped abruptly as if it was also surprised by my boldness. The driver didn’t turn to acknowledge me and most likely assumed I was another lunatic aboard his bus that would soon begin asking for spare change or handing out blessed cloths and gospel tracts.
The old lady didn’t look up but her hands stopped knitting. The guy plucked one earphone from his head and peered at the other’s passengers’ faces to gauge how shocked he should be. The woman secured her children with her thin arm, protecting them from my boldness as they smiled at me. ”Hey mommy. I wanna be an actor at State.”
“Meeeee toooo.”
“Not meeeee.”
“And then we can ride the bus and make people smiiiillle when I go to State and be a actor when I grow up like that lady and go to State when I’m this many.” The child accompanied his declaration with the thrusting of 5 fingers into the air. The woman patted the enthusiastic child on the head, smiling at him and remembering how she felt when she was young enough to think every other woman over 5 feet tall was old enough to be called a lady.
“Of course. You can be whatever you set your mind to, sweetie.” Still smiling, she turned to me. I sat down, feeling more like an asshole than a lady, but I had my story about a stranger’s smile. I didn’t feel any more bold than I had on any other day, though I was conscious of my beating heart. The feeling of the ominous and steady beat in my chest and neck and wrists alerted me to the possibility and inevitability of its end. In that moment, I realized I had nothing to lose. As the bus neared my stop, I wrote my number on a page from my small, bold silver journal and ripped it out, leaving the jagged spikes jetting from the binding, and handed it to the guy with the sneakers, not giving him my name. He smiled at me through the window as the bus pulled away and I flipped off the old lady, who wasn’t looking in my direction, but smiling as she shook her head and continued knitting. The vagrant turned and flashed a toothless grin, which I’m sure he would have done had I been there or not. Professor Teegan assured me that I was breaking out of my shell and suggested I audition for more tame roles in the future.
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