Pushing It

A tip to those begging money: don't scare me.

Woe is yard work.  Especially, work that involves anything sticky, pricky, sharp or dangerous.  This is the sort of work that I'm already in a bad mood to do before I even begin.  And this is where I was when I saw him.

He was passing on the sidewalk, at first talking with someone.  They split directions at the corner and he continued.  On the sidewalk, he changed his trajectory like a billiards ball hit obliquely by the queue ball to walk across my yard on an intercept path.  When this happens, "on edge" is what you'd use to describe me.  I braced myself.

The man stood too close for comfort.  With alcohol enhanced breath, he was in my space and it was doing a number on my nervous system.  Electric fear pulsed through my body, which was caught in a power struggle with some reptilian part of my brain in the fight, flight or freeze response.

He asked for money.

He asked for a cigarette.

He asked if there was anyone in the house that smoked.

He asked to talk to them.

I just wanted him away from me, away from my home so I could breathe again.  I was telling him whatever seemed the most sure way to get rid of him, except... I couldn't bring myself to lie.

I refused him money.  I told him I don't smoke.  I told him that my "husband" smokes; and when he asked to talk to him, I told the man that he wasn't home.  He was persistent.  He wanted something; it seemed like anything would have done.  Suddenly, he decided he should leave in case my husband got home and witnessed him with me.

What?  What he was doing was unacceptable in the eyes of another man, but not for me alone?  Is this some weird, man-owns-"wife" paradigm?

This is arguably the crux of why women walking alone get harassed and women walking with men, on the whole, do not (get harassed by other men).  It seems that men find other men a challenge, some thing not to mess with, particularly when ascribing them ownership of the women they're with; whereas women alone are "fair game".

This mindset apparently has nothing to do with the concept that a woman might want or not want something and that that is important.  Crucial, in fact.  This is the mindset where women are things primarily, to be considered in relation to men, not independently.

Men (and sometimes women) seek and, all too often, push to receive.  Pushing: you are more likely to get what you want.  You are also more likely to get what you want from un- or less than willing parties who are often left feeling angry or scared or violated.  If this doesn't matter to you, there's a problem.

Mr. Bud

As you all know, I take the bus.  It's good for exercising (walking to and from the bus stops), it's better for the environment (than taking my own car everywhere), and it's better for my anxiety levels/road rage.  It's also "better" for creepy story material.

I suppose you can guess that I was waiting for the 66.  I was.  I've had some creepy experiences on other bus lines, but those were before I started this blog.  Anyway, I got off the 140 (second creepiest line I've found so far) and went to wait at the stop for the 66.  There were two men on the blue, metal, covered bench, which is segmented into four equal ass-setting areas.  I wouldn't call them seats because they don't seem actually designed for sitting pleasure; they are purely utilitarian places to set your ass.

As men do, one was sitting on one end of the bench, the other at the other end, as far away from each other as possible.  This left me the decision about which ass area to take: the one next to the pudgy, simple-looking, baseball capped guy with the hangdog look; or the one next to the tall, lanky guy, drinking a bud ice and wearing clothing too big for him.  I looked once, then again, and made the quick decision that Hangdog felt less threatening.  He said "Hi" with an odd cadence that suggested mental simplicity, as I sat down.

Mr. Bud seemed to be trying to catch my eye.  I noticed this in my peripheral vision, but decided to keep looking straight ahead.  There's nothing that invites creepitude like acknowledging someone.  Hangdog decided to head for a different pasture soon thereafter, and I willed myself not to get up and move to that seat, further away from Mr. Bud.

A loud motorcycle zoomed past and Mr. Bud whooped into maniacal laughter that stopped as suddenly as it started, then sat, rocking back and forth muttering in such a way that I suspect he has some developmental disability or a brain injury.  I made out the words "want to tell you something" and the rest disappeared into murmurs.

He burst into the same, short lived maniacal laughter a few more times, then got up to toss his beer can in the garbage.  He made a show of stretching way up high to slam the can into the garbage but since there's a cover on these cans with a hole in them not much larger than the diameter of a beer can, it slammed into the lid and bounced onto the ground, jubilant with defiance.  Mr. Bud picked it up and slid it in this time.  I avoided commenting.

He came back around to his seat and stood in front of it, facing the bench and his strewn effects on the ground.  I chanced a glance in his direction and, with horror, found him fiddling with his belt buckle.  By fiddling I mean it looked a lot like he was trying to disengage its latching mechanism.

I had a choice here.  I could have said something quite pointed like "KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!"  Admittedly, part of me was curious if he really meant to do what it looked like.  But I took the easy way out and swiftly removed myself from the vicinity.  I quickly assessed the wall behind the stop and leaned up on it next to a very secure looking guy.  Mr. Bud came around the stop less than a minute later, his pants on, and disappeared into Walgreen's parking lot.

Going My Way?

After the recent burglary, my newest discovery is that, whoever it was, stole all my dance shoes. Of course I discover this on my way to dance. Aside: these people were fucking nuts. Seriously, payless sneakers with leather glued to the bottom? I pick out a pair of worn down soles and leave the house.

I'm making my way towards Central and notice a red pickup with a red cap drive opposite me. A block later the same red pick up with the same red cap pulls alongside the curb. "You need a ride?" the man asks.

Ok, so what is he doing? I guess I mistakenly assume that driving is a means of getting someplace. But clearly if he has turned his car around to meet up with someone going the opposite direction as him, he has other goals. Sadly, this doesn't seem uncommon. I've noticed multiple vehicles do the same now that I'm waiting for my newest cultural experience on the 66. Not all of them could just be lost. They must have GPS for women who are alone.

"Turn left.  You have reached your destination in... 300 feet. Recalculating. ... Make a U turn when possible. Continue 100 feet. Your potential conquest is on the right."

Let's Make a Night of It!

I need to pack.  I also need to clean the kitchen, wash the dishes, do a number on the cat box, change my bed sheets and put the laundry away.  I've been thus thwarted all day so I decided to go to dance anyway.  And now, write this.

The first thing I noticed as I boarded the number 66 was a body lying across the aisle.  I stopped and stared and heard a few titters among the onlookers.  This was a show they'd been enjoying at every stop.  I decided that between standing and staring or sitting beyond the body, the latter was preferable.  So I walked down the aisle and purposefully stepped over the torso semi-dressed in navy.

I say "semi-dressed" because as I turned to take my seat I was treated to an unwelcome view of most of this man's ass.  No, I couldn't see this persons's face, but judging by the ass and pot belly it seemed safe to say the person was male.  I watched reactions as others boarded the bus feeling ill at ease that we were all assuming this person was passed out from alcohol and not that maybe he'd had a heart attack. "Noooo, he's passed out from being too damn drunk" people assured me.  And I trusted that they knew more about 'too damn drunk' than I do.

On my way home I decided to wait for the trusty 66 at the stop west of Rhythm.  It isn't quite as close but I had time to kill and wanted a change.  A short man in his early 30s stepped around the corner with a cane and started to try to engage me in conversation.

"Hey, you dun mine if I... got any... I seem to have... ???"  He started many questions at once but seemed unable to finish them.

He asked if the bus was still running.  Looking at the bus just behind him on the other side of the street I assured him it was.  He said something about losing his bus pass, mumbled something else, and generally blathered.  The next thing I could make out of his words was "you know what a faker is?  I'm a faker" as he pulled a plastic folder out of his pocket and got his bus pass out of it.

He continued to regale me with statements about how he never made it past the 9th, 8th grade, but damn there were some fine looking chicks in his class and they threw him out for being a gang member.  Do I want to see a cane dance?  Do I know who Dr. Dre is?  Do I know who Ice Cube is?  He doesn't like heights so he don't want to, you know... elevation? and heights?  Yeah, no, don't want to be... He's not drunk, or high.  Indians you know, I mean they drink a lot of stuff... water... soda... iced tea... Do I know Ice-T?  But he never made it past 9th, 8th grade.  Have I ever met a wet native american before?  A dumb Indian?  They threw him out ... well, it was discrimination cuz he's a gang member.  Have I ever seen a gang member before?  Why am I... what?  it's raining?  Do I want to go to a wet concert with him?  Can he have my number?  Can he use my phone to call his mother?  Aw dang, he's like 31 and never asked someone for her number before and ... now... she said no.  He's a wet Indian.  He's like not into... like smacking girls and stuff... he's into you know, intelligent girls.  Is this gonna work?  This ... see, I give you my number and you give me yours...

In the midst of this he threw his cane in the garbage can.  He proceeded to get on the bus after me.  I stood close to the night security officer.  I was very relieved when he got off two stops before mine.

Doctors Have Needs Too

My mission today: create a map of 36 different medical drop-in clinics and auto-body/collision repair shops, go to them and drop off marketing materials for work. 

Despite the fighting I did with google maps and mapquest, I was able to get on the road around noon today.  On my list, Dr J's Auto Clinic.  His sign has a stethoscope on it.

"Hi I'm from Masterpiece Medical Massage.  We specialize in car accident victims.  I have some marketing materials here; do you think I could leave them with you, in a waiting area perhaps?"

After determining with a glance, that he didn't really have a waiting area -only a few chairs with minimal padding lined up along the walls- I waited for him to suggest something.  He took the book and cards I handed him and suggested I tack the cards up on a cork board.

"So, you just do medical massage?" he asked coming around the counter.

*Feigning innocence* "As opposed to what?"

"Well, massage for, relaxation..."

"Well, you know the business model works best when we can bill auto insurance.  Although we also take a letter of protection from lawyers, you know, if someone is waiting to settle their case."

"So, you never do other massages?"

"Oh, well, you can call and ask.  Sometimes, if the person is someone we know or recommended by a current client we'll see someone who hasn't been in an accident."

In the future, I think I should be more direct and just say we never do happy endings.  Period.  Why should I play along like I don't know what is being talked about when someone's being indirect and rather creepy?

Fuel For Fear

I chose a Smith's gas station.  I figured that in 4 months of living here using my Smith's grocery card, with no car of my own, I'd probably amassed a good discount on Smith's gas.  Was the place closed though?  The booth was dark, no other cars were in the lot; but then it was 11pm.  I drove in and found that paying by card was still possible.

After fighting with my rewards card a few minutes, everything started flowing normally.  I had just decided to stop the pump (it's the company car, I didn't think I needed to fill it entirely) when around between the two pumps a guy appeared and asked for $0.40 to make a phone call.

I froze, scared into silence.  The only thing I could think was to extricate the car from the pump and get going.  The man said something about not trying to scare me or something and, to his credit, he did not approach me further.

"If you don't want to, you can just say" he offered.

It's not that I wouldn't have given him $0.40.  It was the threat I felt, even though, in retrospect, he didn't seem to pose one.  If the money had been in my pocket, I would have fished it out, though I would have felt scared to go close enough to him to hand it over.  The change was in my bag in the car though.  That meant I would have had to turn my back on him, and climb partially into the car to retrieve it.  The thought of letting him out of my sight so close to me was overwhelming.  What if he had a gun?  What if he attacked me?  But more to the crux of what I was feeling, "what if I feel more fear?"

Perhaps those thoughts sound over the top.  It's sad for the many people who are safe in this world that they may get reactions of fear directed towards them because of the acts of few others.  I felt bad (after getting over the fear) that this man, whom I otherwise would have helped, instead got a fearful picture of himself mirrored back.  I hoped he wouldn't think it was because he had brown skin.  I've been fearful of white women in similar situations.  Still, safe doesn't mean aware or acting in smart ways.  He could take home the awareness that approaching someone late, in the dark, without anyone else around, can produce fear. 

It's been pointed out to me that I had a gas nozzle in my hand which would have been an effective deterrent should it have come to that.  I suppose this is true, but in the midst of the "fight, flight or freeze" reaction, this isn't something that would have occurred to me.  Had it, my thinking would have befuddled the idea in that I would still have had to turn my back on him, get partially into the car, and then go near him to give him the change -none of which would have made toting a gas nozzle plausible.  And it brings up another aspect which is that I was embarrassed that I was afraid of him.  I didn't want him to know.  I thought it would offend him -and people's reactions to me when they are offended upset me.

"Yeah... not right now."  I replied.  "Thanks for being cool."

I was thanking him for not getting mad at me for my reaction and my refusal to help.  I was thanking him for offering me not just a way out, but a way to talk, to end the situation and the fear, which I couldn't come up with myself.

I wonder that people who find themselves the recipients of my fear would lay responsibility for this issue back on me.  I agree that my fear is not always applied to harmful situations, and I am working on it.  But one can't choose when to apply fear to situations that are similar in make up.  Those who intend to do harm don't approach you with that intent clearly stated.  And fear is a chemical reality.  When the pathway gets triggered, there it goes.  It isn't a choice.

I expect it then comes down to whether or not you/I want someone to have to deal with potential fear, regardless of whether we are intending harm.

Starting At The Top

I was in Albertson's today to buy a bus pass.  Handy that they sell them at Albertson's since I was nowhere near the Transportation Center and wouldn't be able to be until after they were already closed.

Walking out I noticed a man who gave me a visual once over.  I didn't notice which "type" of look this was because I was trying desperately to not give him any encouragement.  There's nothing like eye contact that encourages people to say or do creepy things.

"Nice hat, Baby..." he leered.

In retrospect (where quips and comebacks are always on cue), I wish I'd said "It is and I'm not a baby" or "I'm not a baby" or just walked on without saying anything.  Instead I said a curt "Thank you" and walked past without looking at him.

Someday in the future a response I'm proud of will just fall out of my mouth at the right time.

Edit:  The next day I got onto the bus on my way to work.  A man likely around the same age as the one previously in this story (though maybe a little older) said to me "Nice hat, Ma'am", to which I turned, looked him in the eyes and said "Thank you."  He then went on to remark about how even the ladies in NM wear hats and isn't that funny?

"¿Hablas Español?"

The man asked this straddling his bicycle and hopping to keep up with me, mostly still walking away.  He'd ridden past me going the opposite way, but pulled a mid-sidewalk U-y. 

"No.  I don't speak Spanish" I answered him.  I always get nervous when people on the street single me out to connect with.  It's usually asking for change, or to use my phone; and I feel put in a difficult and scary situation either way.
"Oooohaaaah, okay... do you know... I need... v'runrun"  (Okay, I don't know what that last word he used was.  That's the way it sounded to me.
"Wha...?"
"Where can I get v'runrun?"
"I don't know what you're asking for -" I started to detach.  There's something about my training that makes it very difficult for me to not listen to people.
"I am single.  I need sex."

I don't know what it is about a t-shirt, mid length shorts that are too big for me and sneakers that makes me look like a prostitute.  Or maybe he thought I knew where the red light district is.

"I'm sorry.  I'm not a prostitute."

Interestingly he didn't feel all that creepy.  But the fear it raised in me was significant.  To an extent there isn't a big logical connection with the event and the fear, and then there also kind of is.  What if me saying "no" was something he chose to ignore?  I admit turning my back on him and walking away was nerve wracking.  I wanted to turn and check behind me every second.  I was hyper-vigilant noticing a pickup that turned into a parking lot in front of me then pulled up alongside me and rolled the window down.  Then, when I walked past, it drove out of that lot and into the next one right in front of me.  I also noticed other vehicles slowing way down near me while I was walking well away from the road, a guy at a bus stop who yelled after me as I walked past "Hey you wanna take a bus?  Wanna take a bus?", a woman asking for spare change at a crosswalk for diapers, and a man stumbling toward me asking for something I didn't make out as I walked past without trying to understand him.

Adrenaline was strong enough that by the time I made it home, I felt like I was walking on a little spinning cloud.  I also decided to carry my pepper spray in my hand.

Looking

This is so common I almost feel silly posting about it.  But a lot of what I'm likely to write about is common, and questioning what is common is a good idea.

I got off the back of the bus at San Mateo while new riders boarded at the front.  As I headed up past the front of the bus a guy stood, slack-jawed moving his eyes down and then back up my body.  He did this until it became clear that he was in my way and should probably board the bus before it took off without him.

I'm calling this sort of check-out the "star struck scan".  The guy seemed somewhat overcome and had an energy that suggested he just didn't know what to do with himself.  Maybe whatever went through his mind completely erased his social training that it's rude to stare.  It's possible for this "look" to be a little bit cute, or even flattering if it didn't also make me feel like running away to staple as many pizza boxes as possible to my person. 

In the store, I pushed my cart up a main aisle, stealthily making room for the many other kamikaze shoppers vying for a bit of aisle real estate.  A man pushing a cart the opposite way let his eyes wander down and back up my body, a little smirk on his face reminiscent of a Disney villain just coming up with her brilliant evil plan.  It's the kind of look that stabs fear into your heart and you think "Aw shit!  Those cute little dalmatians are totally screwed!"

The man said something to me as he passed and I can not remember what it was!  It was something inane and yet suggestive in tone like "What you up to today?" - something that begged a smart-ass and non-flirty response like "finding ingredients to poison my neighbor" but which gets a hurried response rising in tone like "shopping" because the urge to get away from this person is so strong that you simply can't think of something clever in the half a second he's still in hearing distance. 

I do expect people to look at me.  Humans: we're forward facing, lead with our heads and have two eyes right there at the front!  For those of us who can process visual information, seeing is a very important part of our lives.  We make important decisions based on visual data.  And yes, I do expect that data to include who we want to get to know and how we want to know them.

A lot of what makes it hard to write about creepy looks is that it's so subjective.  But that's true of a lot of creepy dynamics between people.  This doesn't have to do much with actions, words, gestures... anything that I can empirically point at and say "See?  That is creepy!"  This has to do with intent and the energy it creates.

When we come across a star struck scanner, I think his intent is really all about himself, his fantasy, what he can do with the picture of my body.  And this is creepy because, intentionally or not, he's letting me see that he's using me-the body for his purposes, without any inclination towards me-the person.  The point where he let's me see this is the clincher.  I couldn't care that someone fantasizes about me-the body (or me-the person) unless I know!

The evil Disney villain is creepy for a similar reason -I can tell he's using me-the body a way in which I haven't consented.  However, he's creepier because his smirk tells me more about the nature of his fantasy AND the fact that he's sharing so much of his reaction with me suggests that he wants me to have some kind of reaction in front of him, like smiling or looking away in disgust.  This is manipulative.  Thinking about it makes you want to scream "NO!  You will NOT screw these puppies!"  (See how well metaphors work?)

I do wonder if I read too much into this sort of thing.  There are multitudes of possibilities for everything.  I mean... maybe he was remembering his last intimate date with his right hand and just happened to be looking at my body at the same time.  Or maybe he was really unaware of how he was sharing information through his face.  However, since he then followed up with an inviting phrase, one I felt slightly creepy about (even if I don't remember exactly what he said); it validates that he wanted some interaction with me, some reaction from me.  The way he went about doing it stunk.

Creepy at the Cornell Post Office

My office keeps a PO Box at the Cornell post office, despite the fact that every one wants it closed.  We have a new PO Box in a much more convenient place, but apparently a certain very important client still sends us mail at Cornell and refuses to change that.  There are all kinds of juicy and aggravating details to the story but it's not important to this story.

In any case, I was checking this PO Box this afternoon, which we dis-affectionately call "corny".  The box had a lovely travel offer to some far off place with palm trees.  Upon stepping out the door, a guy I judged to be in his early 50's waved excitedly and exclaimed "There you are!" as if he'd been looking for me.

Surprised, I walked over.  He was standing behind the company car, which is adorned with advertisements for the many things my office does, medical massage for car crash victims, mediation, general attorney services, etc. 

"I understand you're a pain expert!" the man exclaimed.
"Ah, well, not me.  But the company I work for is." I explained.  "Would you like a card?" I handed him a card.  "We specialize in car crash victims." I continued, thinking we might have a conversation about his incessant neck pain.  I should have known by the way he took the card, surprised, and murmured an "uh, thanks" that this wasn't where he was leading the conversation.
"And I see you do divorces..." I followed his glance toward one of the decals on the car.
"Oh, yes.  The office manager is an attorney, although divorce work he tends to do outside of the office.  In the office he does more work with the car crash stuff."
"Well, what about marriages?" the man asked.
"Oh, yes.  He does marriage too."
"Well, that's not what I mean..." he laughs thinking I've just encouraged him to marry our male office manager. "I mean marrying a woman. I need to marry a woman."
I'm starting to cotton on, but it seems better if I just don't.  "Yes, he does marriages between men and women." I concur.
"I mean... well," he leans over to glance at my left hand "I see you're not married."

Immediately that creepy feeling crawls up from my shoes, blasts me in the face and slithers down my heart.
"Have a good day, Sir" I say hurriedly and head for the car.

I wish I'd said "that was seriously creepy" but I don't think of these things that fast.
I feel tricked and taken advantage of all at once.  And the fact that he was looking at my hand for evidence of marriage, makes me wonder what other "evidence" he'd found visually searching the rest of me.  There comes in the feeling of being used for someone else's purposes.  Ick.