Dead Girls Don’t Dance

My trip home from work this evening was just delightful. Some crazy old guy tried to pick me up at the bus stop. He hobbled up to me and told me he had $300, and he wanted to get a room and a bottle of vodka, and that I was beautiful and he would be really nice to me if I would join him. I just stood there aghast for a moment, partly because I was so surprised that he looked clean and wasn’t smelly.

I suppose he could have gotten the wrong idea from the fact that I was lounging against a wall on a street corner in an area of town that long ago was notorious for the availability of streetwalking prostitutes, but HONESTLY. The hookers relocated something like a decade ago, I believe. I just got off work from a restaurant kitchen, and was dressed accordingly.

(I think it’s a sad commentary on the state of the oldest profession in this town if a woman wearing food-stained jeans and t-shirt can be mistaken for a hooker, even in a run-down neighborhood, but that’s a topic for another day.)

I gave the old man a dirty look and told him I was just waiting for a bus, then pointedly looked away. He didn’t take the hint. The crazies never do. He apparently felt the need to explain himself.

“My name is Bob. I’m 65 years old. You know about any apartments for rent? I just got throwed out ’cause my girlfriend went to jail. She was my girlfriend, you know, I don’t buy women. I give ‘em money and treat ‘em nice, though, because women like that.” (This is correct. So he’s a loony, but he’s not entirely stupid. You don’t have to be a hooker to like money. The world would be a better place if more men understood that. Preferably men who are NOT toothless 65-year-old homeless crazies.) “See this ring? It’s gold. I got a lot of gold. I got $300, too, and I need a place to sleep tonight. You’re really beautiful.”

I slowly sidled away. Bob kept talking, gradually increasing in volume, but started drifting toward somebody else, thank goodness.

“Hey! I need to talk to you, man! You know about any apartments for rent around here?”

The man he was addressing scurried around the corner, because by now Bob was shouting. Not in a hostile way, just amazingly loud for someone who appeared to be rather decrepit. Everyone at the bus stop was trying to ignore him, but it was hard, because he kept saying weird funny things, and people were snickering.

“I need a room tonight. It’s gonna get cold, but that’s okay, I survived the Ice Age. I’m like a roach. I AM a roach. I WILL survive! That’s a song. That’s a song by Gloria Gaynor.”

Bob pointed at me and started singing “I Will Survive” in a cracked voice. Oh GOD DAMMIT WHERE IS MY FUCKING BUS?!?

To make things worse, I was really tempted to take video or at least a picture of this poor old nut. It would have been interesting. He looked like a perfectly normal old guy from a distance; he was clean shaven, and his clothes, although faded and a bit shabby, were clean and fairly tidy… but at close range, it was obvious that he was quite mad. Insane. Crackers. He was smiling as pleasantly as he could manage, keeping his lips closed over his toothless gums, but when I looked at his eyes I could almost see the wasps eating his brain. It was repulsive, yet fascinating. (My hand started rummaging in my bag for my digital camera, without my permission.)

It was a bad idea to photograph this man. I wasn’t sure how he would react, and the high probability that he would interpret it as a sign of attraction and interest was unacceptable in light of the fact that I had NO IDEA how much longer I would have to put up with his nonsense before I was rescued by a bus. (Stop rummaging, dammit!)

Meanwhile, Bob forgot the words to “I Will Survive”, faltered for a moment, then launched into another song, after announcing that it was by Hank Williams, Sr., while wandering aimlessly around in the street, in rush hour traffic. Lucky for him it was moving at a crawl.

I then had another horrible thought… what if I took his picture, and he ALSO boarded my bus and started following me? He didn’t seem dangerous, but I can’t begin to calculate how embarrassing and how much more tedious than usual my bus ride would have been. What if he tried to follow me HOME? (The disobedient camera-seeking hand withdrew from the bag of its own accord.)

The poor old bugger somehow made it safely to the other side of the street, where he started annoying some other people who were waiting for a bus heading the other direction, and then MY BUS ARRIVED.

Hallefrickinglujah. I have officially survived yet another day of being a loony magnet.

Tags: semi-daily //