We all have a hidden talent. Some unique seemingly-minor aptitude that sets us apart among the stifling tidal wave of humanity. It could be any range of bizarre, uncanny skills - dominating Texas Hold ‘Em, predicting the weather, crafting the perfect omelette. We keep these little masteries to ourselves, knowing that they may seem foolish or insignificant to the sea of judgmental faces peeking at us from neighboring windows, cars or cubicles, and when we feel disconnected and pointless in this cosmic fray, we’re consoled by the thought that we alone can fold flawless origami or knot a cherry stem with our tongues in under a minute.

My random talent is song lyrics. I’m hardly quick with memorizing, but somehow I ended up with a Rain Man ability to learn the words to nearly any song at will. I’ll hear something twice on the radio, and every line is implanted in my cerebrum for the next 10 to 15 years. Ask me to provide my phone extension at work, I have to pull out my business card and check the number, but I can launch into each verse of “Jet Airliner” at a moment’s notice. I love singing, and I’m not bad - when I showed promise as a child my mother shuttled me off for a few years of voice lessons, but I’ve never been much for performing on stage - the point of learning to sing was to provide an outlet for my savant ability, not to entertain roomfuls of strangers.

For years, driving provided the perfect forum for spouting my useless knowledge - I could play stacks of CDs and tapes in my car, belt out every song, and fall into the soothing familiarity of endless memorized lyrics. But then I moved to the city, and left my driving days behind (it’s a good thing, since I’m basically a menace to myself and others behind the wheel). Now, as I dash from sidewalk to train without the soundproof cloak of steel doors and closed windows, I can’t bear to sing along with Steve Perry or Chrissie Hynde under the penetrating gaze of my fellow New Yorkers. In a place as saturated with humanity as Manhattan, it doesn’t matter how inconspicuous you may think you are, someone is always watching (this point was made readily apparent the other evening, which I spent walking around the tropical living room in my underwear until Boyfriend came over, took one look out the window and threw a blanket over me yelling, “Cover up! There’s some guy looking in here from the building next door!”)

But the other night, as I made a steamy trek to the nearest subway, I couldn’t help myself. The need to silence the relentless stream-of-thought voice in my head and immerse myself in rote memory was too great. Ok, so what if I’ll be that girl walking down the street singing loudly, who cares what people may think. So, with a furtive look around to make sure I wasn’t being tailed by any downtown scenesters or stray tourists, I took a breath and belted:

“She came in though the bathroom window, protected by a silver spoo-”

Crap, shopping bag-laden teenage girls at 3 o’clock, they’re giggling and pointing in my direction. Eh, screw it, I wasn’t all that cool when I was their age, why start now.

“But now she sucks her thumb and wanders, by the banks of her own-”

“Hey baby, come over here and sing us a song!”

I look over, the leering catcall came from a group of guys in wifebeaters lounging on a stoop. I snap my mouth closed, lower my head, speed up the pace, pretend to be preoccupied with my cell phone. I’ve been thwarted, intimidated, the inner voice is louder than ever. Why won’t people let me retreat into my head without constantly trying to butt in? Why all the constant ridicule of random people on the street? I thought about it, and had a revelation - ultimately, aren’t all of these onlookers just as terrified of my judgment as I am of theirs? We all launch strategic preemptive attacks, picking others apart to deflect any scrutiny of our own bizarre idiosyncracies and insecurities. So I look a little silly, walking down Bleecker singing Abbey Road at the top of my lungs, who among us doesn’t make a fool of themselves once in a while? Maybe if I stopped expending so much energy trying not to look stupid all the time, I wouldn’t need to mentally retreat so badly. I looked over at the guys on the stoop, smiled, and kept on singing.