Monthly Archives: February 2007

First Impressions

I got out of work (on time) so got the bus (on time). Things were looking good. I’m one of two people to get on the bus. Like molecules in water, we split throughout the bus. As the bus makes a couple of stops more people get on. Three. Four. Five. All splashing into their own area of the pool. Six. By my estimation, there are at least 30 other places to sit without going near another gentle molecule. But this number six, she’s not playing in the deep end.

She sits right next to me.

I’ve hit the loony lottery!

Now, if that weren’t odd or bad enough, she wasn’t just a ‘you stay on your own side of the little seat hump divider’ type. She was definitely a ‘I call the hump’ type.

Not being the type to shy away from physicality, I shifted, ever so slightly, to regain, not the hump, the hump is no ass land, but just my portion on the seat I’ve rented for the next eight to twelve minutes.

Once she’s realized I’m not interested in a takeover, hostile or otherwise, she shifts and slithers in her seat to find a comfortable locale.

Wherein she must have unclogged a pocket of aroma. It was a combination of steak-ums and mascara. As if that wasn’t unsettling enough, once she gets her shifting into high gear she begins chattering and singing in a tone reminiscent of the horse that died in Dean Wormer’s office in ‘Animal House.’ During the sonata, curiosity finally gets the best of me. I look up from the script I’m going over and turn toward this lady. And immediately regret my curiosity. Look what curiosity did to cats! What made me think I’d make out better?

Have you ever seen a baboons butt? If, for some reason you haven’t or have blotted the image from your mind, let me refresh it for you:

Her hair was that red. And that was the most subtle thing about her. Have you ever seen a drawing by a three year old who has ADD and just loves color? Increase that pictures colorful cacophony by a factor of six and you’ll have a pretty clear image of Ms. Picasso.

She turned and looked at me. I think. Her focus was a little off so it was tough to determine if she was looking at me or her invisible friend. Whomever she was addressing she was adamant about getting her information out.

“Higher arches don’t help.”

I think that’s what she said. She could have said something about hierarchy donning kelp. It didn’t matter because I’d already come to the conclusion that she was talking to her invisible friend. It’s just that I’d taken his place in line at this time.

Her whining continued unabated and unintelligible until she reached her crescendo.

“Did you know that a million bugs, no, a million and three bugs, a million and three, live under your toenails? Million and three.”

I look at this woman and smile as put my script away, adjust my bag, and push the button to signal to conclusion of my visit to the wonderful world of wacky.

“A million three, huh?” I say as I deftly slip my legs past hers making sure to make no contact. “Well, butter my scrotum and call me toast.”

I slip past her and begin to walk to the front of the bus. I hear here singing a new refrain as the door opens and I begin my exit.

“He’s weird. He thinks he’s toast.”

We’re all toast lady. It’s just that some of us are a little more burnt.

Label Guy

I ran into a woman I’ve known for years. She’s always labeled herself a dyke. We’ve gotten along since the first misstep.

I was standing at a bar awaiting the bartenders attention when she leaned in front of me. I didn’t like that much so I explained I’d been waiting so, in all fairness, she should wait.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Now why do they always have to drag self-abuse into it?

I stood there for a moment as she looked up at me in an intimidating fashion. Awwwww, that’s so cute. I looked at her for a moment as I weighed my options. She must have taken my deductive manner as fear so she squared off in front of me and said,

“What are you going to do about it?”

Well, that makes my options clearer.

“I will beat you to within an inch of your life and then finish the job by wrapping the chain on your wallet around your neck.” We looked at each other for a moment until she takes a step back and says,

“Oh, big man, you’d hit a woman.” I leaned in and said,

“I punched a dog in the face. What chance does a being of my own species have of not getting smacked?”

Since then, we’ve gotten along famously. And, yes, I did punch a dog but only because it’s owner wasn’t the one running at me.

This was a neighborhood dog who would intimidate everyone. It would run after kids; chase car; tear up people’s lawns; just a general nuisance. The owner wouldn’t listen to reason. This was the type of guy who would sit at his front window so you could watch him while he cleaned his guns.

The cops had been by but nothing was ever done. This was before the time when a dog bites someone and it’s front page news and a community up in arms. In those days we’d handle it on our own.

I’m walking down the street one day and the dog comes out of someone’s yard, where it was probably shitting, and starts running towards me in an intimidating fashion. And, by now, we know how well I react in those situations.

So I stopped. The dog kept racing towards me. I put my right arm up figuring if it was going to chomp on something it should at least be delicious.

The dog gets closer, he’s not slowing down, I figure I have to wait until the last second to do anything because that’s how it’s done in the movies.

The dog is six feet away and leaps. Keeping my arm out as a target, I turn my shoulder and punched that dog square in the nose.

From his reaction I could tell he didn’t like that. From his future reactions when he’d see me, I could tell he remembered.

So this prototype lesbian (and I don’t want anyone to send me email telling me I’m any kind of ‘ist’. I’ve been in too many locker rooms to know homosexuals come in every shape, size, and any other differentiation. I can only assume it’s the same in men’s locker rooms) runs into me and tells me she’s now bisexual.

“Really? You? Someone who’s called herself a bulldyke, at the top of her lungs, from the top of a bar?” I reminded her. When I say ‘top of a bar’ I don’t mean the serving bar. I mean the top that’s called the roof.

“Yeah.” She stands there waiting for me to say something. A man’s secret. A little insight.

“Well, I will tell you that you really don’t blow.”

There ya go, Chris’ PSA of the day.

There were a few more minutes of her explaining why, how and, honestly, I missed some of it due to the cracking sound of my teeth grinding together while my brain screamed,

“Too much sharing! Too much sharing! Chris wants to be taken off the need to know list!”

Near the end of the conversation I ask her if she really wants to be called bi. I explained that, being an individual, wouldn’t she want to be know as something more personal. Like what, she asks.

“How about a byke? Easy to ride and hours of fun!”