In the tranquil suburbs of New Jersey, a baby looks around—entirely awestruck—in a coffee shop. Fragrant coffee beans, whirring machinery, and bumbling old men with crumbs in their beards are plenty to be bewildered by. A dog lies outside with its leash twisted around a lamppost, panting happily at wandering strangers, as it tugs to try and get a whiff of the nearby fire hydrant.
Meanwhile, just across the river, in the hellish heart of Manhattan, a similar child in a stroller stares straight ahead down 14th Street—entirely disinterested—while being pushed past fashion students in twinkling chainmail and leather pants, flocks of unmoving pigeons that control the direction of sidewalk traffic, and Union Square market stalls on creaky plastic tables. Nearby, an apartment puppy ambles unresponsively past a pile of trash so odorous that the wafts of the vomit-worthy aroma are practically visible.
There’s a striking resemblance between babies and dogs. Up until the point where a baby turns into a toddler, both are quadrupedal, and they also share an innocent, albeit compulsive, craving for exploration. In AnyOtherTown, USA, babies stare with unnervingly wide eyes at seemingly anything that moves: a person on a walk, each leaf that delicately falls from a tree, a fluttering butterfly, or a car speeding by. They grab with grubby fingers at anything in their reach, desperate to feel its textures and to see if their mothers will dig in their mouths if they try to chew on it. Dogs with wagging tails are known to incessantly bark at squirrels, sniff up trees, and occasionally stall for far too long on patches of grass, their keen noses exploring every subtle scent.
Why, then, do New York babies and dogs partake in none of these activities that nature intended? It’s unnerving! Their blank faces and emotionless eyes mirror those of middle-aged city men who work soul-crushing finance jobs on Wall Street, spending their nights alone, scheduling emails for 7am, with half-empty bottles of Jameson resting in the middle of their Restoration Hardware coffee tables. The vibrant tapestry of city life leaves these pint-sized locals unfazed, a stark contrast to their counterparts living elsewhere who find wonder in the smallest of things.
There’s something so heartbreaking about seeing stoicism on a chubby-cheeked face, or twitch-less ears on a furry head. The relentless symphony that encapsulates what New York really is—shrieking sirens and honking horns, blinding sunlight reflecting off taxi cab windows, flashes of red and blue, whiffs of cigarette stench and incense lingering outside crystal shops—so normal that it’s accepted by feeble minds with an air of indifference.
I’m terrified of New York babies and dogs. It’s as if they’re born with the deep-seated apathy that is required to be dubbed a “New Yorker;” it’s innate to their existence. Despite being in their formative years, where any kind of distraction is a learning experience, they couldn’t care less about paying attention to their surroundings. Perhaps I’m a bit envious, too. For the majority of my life, I’ve lived a mere 40-minute train ride away from NYC. As someone with borderline-crippling social anxiety, I’ve avoided the city like the plague. And they have the audacity to pass through this city drastically less overwhelmed than I can. They have a level of resilience and adaptability that I could only dream of having. Despite living in the center of the city’s mayhem for over two years–longer than some of these miniature residents have existed–I feel just as much a tourist as the many who cycle through the city like customers in a coffee shop.
These babies, in five or so years, will have perfected the art of jaywalking and hailing a cab. By summertime, these puppies will be strutting down sidewalks and boarding the subways on their own, leashes dangling from their mouths. And I will still be as terrified of them as I am of everything else in this city.