There is something very strange going on in New York, where I live. The first time I noticed it was a few weeks ago when, as the snow swirled around me, a man walked past me wearing a pair of flimsy shorts, flapping about in the Arctic wind. It was like some kind of mirage, but without the heat. And suddenly, I was seeing them everywhere: on 5th Avenue, mooching around Greenwich Village, hailing cabs. I could no longer avoid the truth: there are men in shorts walking the mean sub-zero streets of New York in January.
For heaven’s sake: why? A sponsorship deal with a shorts manufacturer? An incapacity to feel pain? I had to know. So I went on a shorts circuit of Manhattan.
Mika is going down the subway near Times Square. He is wearing a heavy double-breasted coat — and stylish shorts — grey, baggy, with a university motif. We are thrown together on the train and I pluck up the courage to ask: “What are you doing in shorts while the rest of us are freezing?” Before he can answer, a woman intervenes and shakes her finger at Mika. “They think they are tough guys. They are just showing off.” Mika smiles. “You want to know why I’m wearing shorts? It’s so I can get a reaction out of people like you. I walk into Dunkin’ Donuts and they’re like, ‘Man, what is wrong with you?’ I love that.”
I get off on the Upper West Side. Justin is crossing the street “I just came out to get some air,” he says. He didn’t even realise he was wearing shorts. He always wore shorts, rain or shine — or snow.
Owen is sitting sprawled on a bench, lounging like it’s August. “I’m from Boston,” he says. “It gets way colder up there. This is nothing.” Then he adds: “I’m applying for a job. Some jobs you don’t need a suit and tie.” A job, he seemed to imply, with some kind of men-in-shorts organisation.
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The more I look, the more I see: four men standing together near Columbia University campus; a couple of be- shorted teenagers on the East Side called Gil and Henry (pictured). “We have to wear shorts,” says Henry. “It’s cool,” says Gil. “You ought to try it.” I decide to take his advice. The anthropologists call it “participatory observation”. In other words, put on the shorts and get your legs out there. And then I understand. There is something exhilarating and liberating about having winter winds whistle up your shorts.
When I see a university professor coming towards me, I note that he is wearing the symbol of our secret society. We exchange a nod. I have become one of them. I have joined the men in shorts.