My Lyft driver asks if I would like to be dropped off “where all those weirdos are sitting.” I tell him I think I would, please. People are coupled off, staring into the eyes of the person in front of them. Some are holding hands while they stare; others are hugging. Two people sit alone, waiting. For me?
I walk toward the crowd in my polka dot dress with my elephant purse slung over my shoulder. I’m ready for the World’s Biggest Eye-Contact Experiment in Oakland. I just wish I hadn’t eaten an onion bagel for breakfast.
The event suggests that we’ll share a minute of eye contact with strangers in public to rebuild our sense of humanity. How does this begin? I decide to ask an attractive man sitting in the middle of the eye-contact orgy. His name is Nick, and he instructs me to sit down on the ground. I do so while trying not to flash him.
“How will we know when the time is up?” I ask.
He tells me that we will just “feel it,” but I’m skeptical. We shake hands, which feels odd before we’re about to dive into the depths of each other’s eyes, but go along with it. We begin what feels like a staring contest, but all I can think about is that I hope he’s not looking at my jagged bangs or can smell my onion-bagel breath.
Left eye. Right eye. Left eye. Massive mole. Don’t laugh. Don’t you dare laugh. Stop thinking about sex. Stop making weird humming noises. Stop picking your cuticles.
He has no reaction at all. I smile. I giggle. I lick my lips. I swallow—twice. He maintains his stoicism.
I want to break him. To see a laugh line near his eye or a small twinge of his mouth. I remember this fact I had read earlier: “When you maintain eye contact, people can often feel strong emotions like sexual excitement or rage.” I attempt to survey his crotch for signs of an erection without breaking eye contact, but it proves to be difficult.
“Are y’all seeing the souls of my ancestors in there?” a homeless man asks us as he walks by.
I am not, and Nick remains stone faced, so it’s hard to tell if he is. After about 312 seconds, he announces that we are done. I thank him and get up as quickly as I can.
An older woman with a long braid over her shoulder sits alone, waiting for her next 60-seconder. I sit down in front of her, and we begin right away — no fumble of conversation or uncertain questions. She smiles as she stares, and it’s as if she’s dissecting my memories, unwrapping secrets and dusty shame.
It is so uncomfortable that I want to flee screaming, but it is also so kind that I begin to cry. My tears cause her to have tears, and it is one of the dearest moments I have ever experienced.
Then one of the event facilitators puts a camera in my face and ruins it.
It feels odd to stand up after sharing something so intimate with a person. It’s like fucking and walking out the door 60 seconds later. I stand up anyway, and a man with a neck tattoo waves at me.
“Would you like to eye-gaze with me?”
His name is T. He crinkles his eyes as he gazes into mine, smiling and laughing, and I really try to breathe only through my nose.
“I can hold space for whatever has been going on with you lately,” he offers me.
What has been going on with me lately is that I recently ended a two-year relationship and am in desperate need of casual sex, but I feel like he is not the right person to disclose this information to. He then informs me that my right eye is serious and my left eye is playful, like a baby dolphin, and that it made him smile. And he wants to know how I feel.
I feel freaked out.
I do not tell him this, but I do tell him that his right eye is kind and his left eye is its spicy sister, because I do not know what else to say.
He then asks, “Can we share a hug?” as if it is a cookie. I say yes, still.
I engage in three more eye-contact sessions until I’ve had enough intimacy for one day. I walk over to the lake and sit down on the steps in the sun. It’s just me and my onion-bagel breath eavesdropping on the group of men near me.
“I wish I would have just gotten a hot dog,” one says. I kind of agree with him.
