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GREENWICH VILLAGE JOURNAL
Inviting the Public's Embrace, One by One
By ANDREA ELLIOTT

Jayson Littman is not especially lonely, or religious, or in need of cash - things that strangers might assume upon meeting him.

He is a financial analyst who happens to think that New Yorkers could use a hug. So it was, a month ago, that Mr. Littman began distributing hugs - free - from 1 to 4 p.m. on Sundays in Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.

"At first I thought no one would respond," said Mr. Littman, 26, who lives in Manhattan. But on his first Sunday, standing before a giant hand-lettered sign that reads "Free Hugs," Mr. Littman and a friend embraced 200 people in two and a half hours. "There's a lot of war and blood in the world right now,'' he said, "and this helps to even it out."

On first impression, Mr. Littman seems more salesman than pacifist. Wearing a T-shirt that echoes his sign, arms outstretched, he stands near the dog run and yells to passers-by: "Hey! Need a free hug? It's cheaper than a subway ride. Come on! Everyone needs a hug."

More often than not, people keep walking, or stop and stare, searching for the catch. They look for a hidden donation box, or a stack of religious pamphlets.

"People ask me if I'm wearing deodorant," Mr. Littman said. The answer is yes. Mr. Littman is almost antiseptically clean. He has close-cropped hair and a light scent of cologne, and tucks his shirt neatly into his spotless jeans. His smile is blindingly white.

"Last time I didn't hug him, and I felt so bad I hugged him today," said Nicole Cavender, 23, a dog walker who was accompanied by two French bulldogs. Mr. Littman hugged them, too. (Dogs are a big part of his clientele.)

"First, I was like totally paranoid," said Elizabeth Singer, 48, a psychotherapist who watched Mr. Littman from the distance while her Maltese played in the dog run. "But he seems to be really happy and generous. Of course, being a New Yorker, you wonder what happy and generous really is."

Between hugs, Mr. Littman spelled out his rules: "No dates, no numbers, no money. This is a nonprofit organization."

Mr. Littman's other rule is no discrimination: anyone who wants a hug gets one. He hugs the homeless.

"Need a hug?" he asked a woman smoking a sweet-tipped cigar.

"I don't, but you sure look like you need one," she replied, wrapping her arms around him. "He looked lonely," the woman, Jo Copasso, 43, said later.

On typical Sundays, Mr. Littman is accompanied by his friend Sipai Klein, who also gives out hugs. But because of Mother's Day, Mr. Klein could not be there yesterday. Mr. Littman said he was "not in touch" with his own parents, who live in Brooklyn. The subject causes a brief, sad lull before he charges on.

"How about a free hug?" he hollered at a man, woman and small boy dressed all in black. "How about not?" the boy shot back.

"I'm trying to cut down," said a banker from Kenya.

"Nothing's free," said another man, as he brushed past with his golden retriever.

The rejections seemed to bounce right off Mr. Littman's toothy smile.

"Ahhhhh!" screamed Faith Smith, 15, of Queens, as she sprinted toward Mr. Littman's open arms and delivered an almost crushing embrace.

"Nobody wants to give him a hug,'' she said. "I feel so bad."

Melanie Griot, 27, watched Mr. Littman for 20 minutes before succumbing to his arms. "I had a really bad morning," said Ms. Griot, an aspiring writer who had had a fight with her boyfriend.

Halfway through the afternoon, Mr. Littman's friend Jeffrey Greenberg, a teacher who lives in Toronto, walked up and said hello, then stepped back to watch.

"He told me he started this a few weeks ago, so I had to see this with my own eyes," said Mr. Greenberg, 27, who stood with his arms crossed. "He's a little bit quirky at times, but I never would have expected this."

In less than an hour, an unexpected transformation had occurred in Mr. Greenberg. He, too, was soliciting people for hugs.

"It's contagious," he said.

Soon, an actor, Langdon Bosarge, 35, walked up to the pair.

"Why are you guys doing this?'' Mr. Bosarge asked. "Hugging strangers is, like, weird."

"What's your name?" Mr. Littman asked.

"Langdon."

"My name's Jayson. Now we're not strangers."

They hugged.

"It felt O.K.," Mr. Bosarge said as he walked off. "It was kind of the half-body-contact hug versus the full frontal."

It was what Mr. Littman has termed the "duck hug," when a person ducks in and out. There is also the "three-tap hug" - a cautious, back-patting type. No matter what comes at him, Mr. Littman always seems to respond with the same calm, noninvasive embrace.

Among those surveying Mr. Littman yesterday was Carolyn Howe, 54, a professor of sociology at College of the Holy Cross, in Worcester, Mass., who happened to be walking through the park.

"It makes a lot of people think about themselves, about why they're afraid of getting a hug," Ms. Howe said.

Mr. Littman hopes to start a national hugging movement. For the time being, he is trying to recruit "cameo huggers" to help fortify his presence in the park.

"The elderly are the hardest grab," he said. Every Sunday, an 87-year-old woman hobbles past him about five times during the course of the afternoon, each time dismissing him with the flick of a hand.

Sure enough, yesterday was no exception. "She's my toughest one," he said before bellowing, "Every Sunday you turn me down!"

The woman, Lynn Logan, sat on a shaded bench, nearby, wearing an Ebenezer Scrooge scowl beneath her red-wool hat.

"He oughta get a job. He has nothing better to do," said Ms. Logan, a retired telephone operator. "I can't be bothered with this nonsense.''

But asked why she would not relent, she paused and said, "He's not my type."