… that it’s rarely ever anything but a homeless man that REALLY gives me a lot of trouble. I’ve had your average asshole hit on me at a bar (as most of us have) and random passersby deciding I need to have a chat with them about dating or drugs, perhaps some God or maybe even a smattering of why the government is beaming death rays into our skulls in order to keep the black man down. Anything remotely nutty, I’ve heard it.
But it’s the homeless men … the true lovers of that which is me … that seem to absolutely, without a doubt have a need to provide me with a reason for this blog. Granted, I’m sure other rants will slip in here from time to time (hospitals, pets, people … they all have a place here) but it’s events like the following that really get me:
So today, I decided to go meet with Travis for a cup of coffee. Seems innocent enough, yes?
This requires me to trek through the badlands of Homeless Man territory. The hub of activity for those that seek cigarettes and beer money. So! The meeting was uneventful. Ran into an old friend, chatted for a while … nothing bad. Upon my departure, we said our goodbyes and went off to our respective buses at the terminal. Which, as you’ll notice, most of my problematic stories will stem from that singular location.
On the bus I go, wary already, having been “flagged down” by a very discontent looking individual with an obvious crack addict twitch. I decided to leap onto the bus as a means of escape. It worked. For a moment. Until *he* arrived.
He smelt of urine and something … foul. Even more foul than that which exists under the bed of a serial animal hoarder. More foul than a week old diaper. Something laced with Satan’s ass on a hot day in the middle of the sun.
He sat down behind me. Of course. Because this story would not be in existence if he kept a distance, oh no.
This is the BEST I can assume as to what he spoke of:
“Hey … hey. Fifty. Fifty. You. Fifty. You see … *mumblemumble* there… and it made … but if you’re not sure, honey. Well. Packages are for them. *mumblemumble* is made of it. You’re missing the point, honey. I mean it. Look at your hair … why *mumblemumble* it’s so pretty in here. Isn’t it dark? Oh, lord…”
This continued for a while until he said this nifty tidbit:
“I’ll kill you.”
The words every girl wants to hear whilst traveling alone on a dark bus.
So… drastic times call for cunning measures.
Not wanting to make a scene and possibly enrage my soon-to-be assailant, who was obviously mentally deficient enough in the first place, I made a move. I chose the darkest, nearest stop possible and pulled the cord. I gathered up my things and got ready to stand. As the bus pulled over, he rushed out the door and stood waiting. The doors closed. I sat back down.
To try and describe the look on his face is a bit beyond my capabilities. I’m not familiar enough with utter and complete insanity to make an attempt. Needless to say, it was … interesting.
Aside from a random car of asshats honking at me to “come ride the best cock in town,” which was soon offered to another woman down the road, I made it to Undergrounds without and rape/murder/beatings.
I don’t know why they choose me. I’m not the most attractive girl around, or the most flamboyant and dressy. I don’t even wear make-up, for fuck’s sake. There is just a thing, a something, that has caused this to happen from a very young age. Even at the age of seven, a homeless man attempted to stroke my hair on a city bus as my aunt stared in angered confusion.
Either way, it happens. It’s life. Tomorrow is a new day to do it all over again!