Friday, May 26, 2006
Things Zombie Has Had Hollered At Her
I mentioned in the previous post that men sometimes holler things at me when I am walking down the street.
This does not piss me off, for the most part, because, really, it's sometimes entertaining.
Sure, I get the usual "HEEYYYY!" and "WOOOO!" and suchlike.
Sometimes I even get the odd Mexican in a low rider, "OYE, MAMACITA!!! AIEEEEEE!"
But sometimes it's much, much better.
One day, I am walking down the road in Sunny Ypsilanti, on my way to the doctor. I am minding my own business.
A car pulls up next to me. The window rolls down. I think someone is going to ask for directions, so I look over.
The driver leans over to the window and says, politely, "Excuse me."
"Yes?" I say, still thinking he's going to ask for directions to somewhere.
"Where you going?" he asks.
"Er...this way," I reply and start walking again. Not directions.
"Wait," he says, and pulls the car up, following me.
"I just want to talk to you."
"I am busy. I am walking. I have places to go. Go away."
"Where you going?"
"None of your business. Leave me alone."
"Oh," he says.
I am still walking, mind you, and he is still slowly rolling along beside me.
"Hey!" he says.
I stop, annoyed. "WHAT?"
"Can I hit that coochie?" he inquires. In a conversational tone, as if he is remarking upon the weather.
"Uh...what?" Did I just hear that? Surely my ears doth deceive me...
"I said, can I hit that coochie?"
"I thought that's what you said..."
"Well, can I?" He is earnest. His face is shiny.
"You sure?" he asks, politely.
"Well, okay," he says, crestfallen. The window rolls back up, he drives away.
Skip forward to another day, when I am walking to the bus stop. I cross a small side-street, where a cop car is sitting.
The window rolls down.
"Miss?" says the cop.
"Uh oh," I think. "What've I done now?" Cops make me nervous for reasons we won't get into right now. I think if a cop is talking to me, it's because I'm about to be Accused of (Insert Random Crime Here) Most Foul.
"Yes, Officer?" I say, going over to the car.
The cop is wearing one of those Smokey Bear hats, and mirrored sunglasses, and has a Cop Mustache. You know the one.
"You're pretty," says Smokey Bear.
"Er...thank you?" I say.
There is an awkward silence, as I am not expecting to be told I am pretty by Smokey Bear. I am expecting to get arrested for something.
He smiles at me with big, shiny white teeth.
"Would you like to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?" inquires Smokey.
"Well, I see a pretty girl like you and I wonder to myself, 'Self,' I wonder, 'Would that little lady like to go out to dinner with you tomorrow night, do you think?' And then I think, 'I don't know, Self, let's find out.' And that's what I'm trying to find out."
I am becoming increasingly alarmed.
If I decline Smokey's offer, he will be angry. His mustache seems to indicate a well of hatred and violence simmering below the surface, straining to break free at any provocation. Also, he appears to talk to himself and have no problems with announcing this to other people, and that can't be right.
If I decline, will he arrest me? Will I be charged with Resisting Oddly-Mustached Cops and Their Offers of Food Consumption?
So I say the only thing you can say, in situations like these:
"But...you look like Burt Reynolds."
Zombie! SHUT UP!
"Oh, well...er," says Smokey.
I mentally kick myself 9 billion times. Yet another prime example of my Brain to Mouth Filter malfunctioning.
"I am sorry," I say, quickly, trying to cover. "I cannot go out with you. I have children. And...I don't have anyone to watch them. So. I am...uh...very flattered, Officer, but I have to say no. Because of the children. You understand. Thank you, though. Really."
"Weeeell," says Smokey, "that's all right, honey. That's just fine. Thank you, anyway."
"No, no, thank you, Officer. You have a nice day now."
And I hurry off.
There was also a time when I was walking home from the convenience store, many moons ago, when I still lived over on LeForge, which is a Street of Crime and Death and Other Unsavory Things. I was walking at night, because I am smart like that.
Hey, I needed a Cherry Coke real bad.
Anyway, I was wearing this t-shirt, a Jim Rose Circus t-shirt, and it says "FREAK" in huge white letters on the back. I love that shirt. Wonder where it is...
Anyway, yeah. So, I am walking and I hear someone walking behind me. I walk faster. The someone behind me speeds up, too.
I keep walking.
"Crap," I think. I am going to get raped and murdered and tossed into the Huron River because I just had to have a fucking Cherry Coke at 2 in the morning. Good job, genius.
"What?" I say, without stopping.
"What's your shirt say?"
"What, can't you read?" I ask.
Zombie! SHUT UP!
"I think it says 'freak,'" says the dude behind me.
"Yes, that is correct," I say, still walking.
"Well," he says. "Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Yes. But not in the ways you're thinking, I'm sure..."
"Can I find out?" he asks.
"What sort of freak I am?"
"If you're a fan of galoshes, weiner dogs and Boy Scout troops, I guess we could work something out..."
I thought that was when the raping/murdering/tossing into the Huron was going to happen, but I must've freaked him out, because he crossed to the other side of the street and kept giving me wide-eyed looks.
So, yes, these are the things that happen to me. Would you like to be me for a day?
link | posted by Zombie at 10:07 PM |
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