A Field Study of the American Male

He hated the dowdy sweaters and frumped hair, the strategic dishevelment.
He hated the Grover Cleveland beards and whispy mustaches and whispy arms and legs of the men.
He hated the big plastic glasses which had no glass and he loved the black leggings and neon attitudes so much and he hated them.
He hated the muffin tops foaming from drawstring pants and the overestimated legs sensationalized in pouty dainty shorts.
He hated the immaculate indifference and the eyes permanently zoned in on the screen, the body's premonition like a tuning fork waiting for the keening of the next text.
He was curious about these people and wanted to know why they did what they did and why he was not one of them. He was so close to being one of them. Why did they wear these stupid things that they wore and why did they behave in these offensive ways that they behaved.
He wrote all of these things into his notebook. He kept finding new ways to say them. It was what he did when he was alone, and he preferred to spend as much time alone as he could.

He sat at a table by the window in Philipp’s Luncheonette eating a breakfast of two Coney Dogs and fries while trying to figure out who these people were by writing about them, why he was apart from them. 
A pretty blond woman in jean shorts came in with a bearded man who had a camera looped around his neck. He was disrupted by the presence of other young attractive people in a place frequented mostly by vagrants and old-timers, and he adjusted himself in his chair, trying to get comfortable with their invasion of a place that he considered his. They murmured to each other for a minute and then the woman approached him.

            “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m from Marie Claire magazine. We’re doing an article on men around America, sort of a field study of the American Male, and we were wondering if we could take your picture.”

            He sat back from his red notebook. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

            The photographer got down on one knee and pointed the barrel of the lens at him. He was nervous, but flattered to be considered an American Male, as he didn’t see himself as exemplifying either of those things, “American-ness” or “Male-ness.” He handled his body comfortably before the camera.

            “Do you just want me to do what I’m doing?” he said.

            “Yeah, just write in your notebook,” the photographer said.

            He looked back at his notebook, trying to reconnect to his concentration. The photographer snapped a few pictures.

            “Could you look up?”

            He looked up into the lens. “I’m a little nervous.”

            “That’s okay. Everybody gets nervous," the photographer said. "You’re good at this. Have you done it before?”

            “I’ve done some modeling for some ex-girlfriends. They were photographers.” He smiled.

            “Okay, now, can you maybe look out at the street?”

            He looked to the side and furrowed his brow, trying to appear contemplative. “Where’re you guys from?”

            “We’re from New York,” the reporter said, “We’ve been to Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, and New York, of course. We’re going to Portland and L.A.:

            The photographer took his eye away from the viewfinder and began to check the pictures on the screen.

            “So what do women say about the American Male?” he said.

            “Actually, if you’ve got a few minutes, maybe we could interview you and you could tell us what you think about Columbus girls,” the reporter said.

            “Sure. I’ve got nothing to do.”

            “What are you working on?”

            “Oh, you know, this that and the other.”

            The photographer aimed his camera again. “Okay, can I just get two more?”

            “Sure, sure,” he put back on his romantic face.

            “Could you sit back?” the photographer said. He sat back. “Maybe lean up on two legs in the chair?” He pushed against the table and the front legs came off the ground. “Perfect.” The photographer took two more pictures. “Great. Now if I could just get you to hold this up so I could white balance. I could probably use your shirt but—“ He was wearing a white V-neck t-shirt. The photographer handed him a board with a black square, a grey square and a white square on it. “Just hold it up in front of you. There you go.” He took a picture. “Great. All done.” He went and sat on a  vinyl stool and checked his pictures. The reporter sat down where he’d been sitting.

            “And if you could just sign this release form,” she slipped a paper in front of him and he signed it. “So, if I were to ask you what is it that makes a Columbus girl, if I were to put you in a room with girls from all those cities I mentioned, how would you pick the Columbus girl?”

            “Umm, gee,” he said. He didn’t want to make her wait while he thought about her question, so he just started talking. “It seems to me there are generally two species of Columbus girl that I generally encounter: There’s the kind of Hipster girls that you might find in New York, with the big glasses and the bangs and the flannel, except like a Bush League version,” he said, “And then there’re sort of the campus girls. Those are the ones I’d most associate with Columbus probably. The girls in the hoodies and the athletic pants with the—I don’t mean to sound judgmental.”

            “Oh no,” the reporter said, “I don’t think you sound derogatory at all.”

            He went ahead. “The girls who get the Tan-in-a-Can stuff. They’re orange. Which is sad, because they’d be pretty without it.”

            “I know what you mean.”

            “I guess a Columbus girl is the kind of girl who wears a football jersey and drinks a beer and tailgates and all that stuff.”

            “Okay, and how would you describe the dating scene around here?”

            “I would say-- I just spent a month in New York and New York is great if you’re a single guy. Beautiful, sophisticated women in an endless supply. I heard a bum on the train say ‘New York: where the girls are pretty, smart, and they all got jobs.’ That sounded right. Not that they aren’t that way around here. It’s just there’s less of them. Columbus is better for the girls I think. The ratio skews more to their advantage.”

            “Okay, thanks. I think that’s all I need.” She stood up and shook his hand and told him they’d call or e-mail if they were going to use him. It’d be in the August issue which would hit newsstands in July.

            He felt important because someone valued his opinion and it was now going to be validated in a national publication. He hoped he didn’t sound too judgmental in print. He hadn't said what he really thought. He'd watered it down and it still sounded judgmental. He thought maybe if he got famous the article would serve as an interesting footnote in his biography, like an early television appearance of a now established entertainer from when they were just starting out: “Three years before his first major success he appears in a piece in Marie Claire magazine. The interview reveals a frustrated, alienated young artist trying to escape his roots…”