"That's another thing about New York. No one smiles here," the old man said, turning to his younger companion as the three of us were exiting the elevator.

I walked out of the building, scooting ahead of them and not bothering to hold the lobby door behind me.

No one smiles here. No one smiles. Here. No one. Smiles.

There were only three of us in the elevator. It seemed rather ridiculous that he couldn't wait a second until I was out of ear shot to make such a comment. Undoubtedly my pensive frown was meant to be an example of his generalization about New Yorkers.

I smile when I have good reason to, and have always felt that it's wise to use ones smiles judiciously. Maybe that's what the old man meant. That here in New York smiling at a stranger is a means to an end, rather than an end in itself. I smile for that free latte the barista at Starbucks sometimes gives me, and occasionally I smile at intriguing people in the hopes of sparking conversation if I'm in a free spirited mood. Otherwise doling out smiles to strangers on the street, in the elevators, in the subway, or anywhere really, just seems so... odd. Doing so would only arouse suspicion.

If someone smiles at me on the street, I check to see if my fly is undone, or if there's food smudged somewhere on my face, and lastly, if I still have my wallet.