Weirdass McWeirdy
Dammit, why does this stuff always happen to me?
I got propositioned by a clown with Tourette's syndrome while trying to find a candy bar and benadryl in a gas station last night.
I shit you not.
I was just looking over the candy bars after getting some benadryl. ( I've had this horrible allergic reaction to something, not the hair dye . . . that's been in my hair for a while, and I need to treat it. It's getting worse. I'll change shampoo, see if that helps.) Anyway, I'm bending over the candy rack, looking for a milky way bar, which is what I wanted and this guy walks in, "woo"ing and yelling and making all sorts of noise. I thought he was drunk. This was what was going through my head at the time:
"Don't come over to me, don't come over to me, don't come over to me, PLEASE don't come over to me . . ."
No such luck. I knew it, though. I was once accosted by some total stranger in the unemployment office who talked to me for 45 minutes about contracting and insisted upon staying 7 inches from my face at all time. Over he came.
"Excuse me, ma'am, did I see you at the casino earlier today?"
"No, I'm sorry, I wasn't at the casino."
"Oh, I saw someone who looked just like you at the casino. Your hair, is it real?"
"No, it's dyed."
"Yeah, I thought so. It's a little too black to be real."
"Yeah, I suppose."
(he sticks out hand, and I shake it) "I'm __________. I (couldn't make this bit out). I'm a clown. I've been working over at Ryan's tonight. I do balloon animals."
(nervous, Oh great, another reason for me to have the creeps, a clown. I start imaging this fellow in whiteface and greasepaint and a chill runs up me) "That's great."
"Hey, what's your name? I'm bad with names."
"It's Julie."
"Julie, right. I think you're very nice. Are you sure you weren't at the casino today? I could swear I've seen you before."
"I wasn't at the casino. A lot of people seem to think they've seen me before. I must just have one of those faces."
(He fishes in his pocket, I think he might take out balloons, but he takes out his wallet instead. He shows me a key card to the hotel next door.) "That's where I'm staying tonight. That's my room number. I'll make you a balloon animal. I can make you anything you want. A kitten, a dog, a monkey."
(now, at this point, I would have asked him for a kitten, and thanked him politely after he did it, even paid him for it, if it had involved being anywhere but his hotel room. He made a remark about me dying my eyebrows and, thank the Gods, Sarah came in from putting gas in the car.)
Anyway, long story short, when Sarah made it clear that she was driving, he backed off a tadge, but asked me if I remembered his room number. I was glad it had been flash-fried into my brain by the shock of the experience, because, at this time, I still thought he was drunk, and was afraid he might get violent. I repeated it back to him, and he seemed satisfied with that.
It wasn't until Sarah had told me she thought he'd said he had Tourette's when he introduced himself to her that I understood. Tourette's, contrary to popular belief, does not consist of being a perfectly normal person who occasionally spews obscenities. Tourette's often consists of all kinds of uncontrolled, impulsive outbursts, and often facial and body tics, as well. His movements and fingers were rather stiff, so those were tics, most likely.
Not that he could help his condition any more than I could help mine, mind you, poor guy. But still, you don't ask perfect strangers up to your hotel room, it's just not cricket. The uncontrollable outburst like that "woo" stuff, I can understand, but asking someone half your age up to your room on the pretense of "Balloon animals"? He has to understand it sounds creepy.
Don't get me wrong, he was probably just lonely, and I know it's difficult for someone with neurological problems to have relationships, believe me, I know, but a perfect stranger? I suppose I'll chalk it up to that being one of his "uncontrollable outbursts".
This reminds me of the time I talked to a wrong number for a half-hour. Actually, it wasn't a wrong number. This guy's date, for lack of a better word, had given him my private line number (when I had one) to call. "Hi, is Randy there?"
"Sorry, there's no one here of that name. Maybe you have the wrong number."
"No, this is the number he gave me."
"Well, this is a private line, I'm sorry."
This guy went on for a half hour about how he never considered himself gay, but he got together with this guy "Randy" at a bar, and how he'd liked his experience but he felt weird and confused and guilty. I reassured him that he had only been experimenting and that one experience doesn't necessarily pigeonhole him into one type of sexuality. I spent a half hour playing psychologist to this needy, persistent wrong number, as we tried to figure out where "Randy" might be, etc. I won't give the clown's name, and I didn't know the wrong number's name, but I will mention this "Randy" because he was a dick, okay? Just because he wanted to ditch last night's fling, I had to console a stranger on the phone in one of the strangest situations I've ever been in.
Again, I ask: Why does this stuff always happen to me?
I got propositioned by a clown with Tourette's syndrome while trying to find a candy bar and benadryl in a gas station last night.
I shit you not.
I was just looking over the candy bars after getting some benadryl. ( I've had this horrible allergic reaction to something, not the hair dye . . . that's been in my hair for a while, and I need to treat it. It's getting worse. I'll change shampoo, see if that helps.) Anyway, I'm bending over the candy rack, looking for a milky way bar, which is what I wanted and this guy walks in, "woo"ing and yelling and making all sorts of noise. I thought he was drunk. This was what was going through my head at the time:
"Don't come over to me, don't come over to me, don't come over to me, PLEASE don't come over to me . . ."
No such luck. I knew it, though. I was once accosted by some total stranger in the unemployment office who talked to me for 45 minutes about contracting and insisted upon staying 7 inches from my face at all time. Over he came.
"Excuse me, ma'am, did I see you at the casino earlier today?"
"No, I'm sorry, I wasn't at the casino."
"Oh, I saw someone who looked just like you at the casino. Your hair, is it real?"
"No, it's dyed."
"Yeah, I thought so. It's a little too black to be real."
"Yeah, I suppose."
(he sticks out hand, and I shake it) "I'm __________. I (couldn't make this bit out). I'm a clown. I've been working over at Ryan's tonight. I do balloon animals."
(nervous, Oh great, another reason for me to have the creeps, a clown. I start imaging this fellow in whiteface and greasepaint and a chill runs up me) "That's great."
"Hey, what's your name? I'm bad with names."
"It's Julie."
"Julie, right. I think you're very nice. Are you sure you weren't at the casino today? I could swear I've seen you before."
"I wasn't at the casino. A lot of people seem to think they've seen me before. I must just have one of those faces."
(He fishes in his pocket, I think he might take out balloons, but he takes out his wallet instead. He shows me a key card to the hotel next door.) "That's where I'm staying tonight. That's my room number. I'll make you a balloon animal. I can make you anything you want. A kitten, a dog, a monkey."
(now, at this point, I would have asked him for a kitten, and thanked him politely after he did it, even paid him for it, if it had involved being anywhere but his hotel room. He made a remark about me dying my eyebrows and, thank the Gods, Sarah came in from putting gas in the car.)
Anyway, long story short, when Sarah made it clear that she was driving, he backed off a tadge, but asked me if I remembered his room number. I was glad it had been flash-fried into my brain by the shock of the experience, because, at this time, I still thought he was drunk, and was afraid he might get violent. I repeated it back to him, and he seemed satisfied with that.
It wasn't until Sarah had told me she thought he'd said he had Tourette's when he introduced himself to her that I understood. Tourette's, contrary to popular belief, does not consist of being a perfectly normal person who occasionally spews obscenities. Tourette's often consists of all kinds of uncontrolled, impulsive outbursts, and often facial and body tics, as well. His movements and fingers were rather stiff, so those were tics, most likely.
Not that he could help his condition any more than I could help mine, mind you, poor guy. But still, you don't ask perfect strangers up to your hotel room, it's just not cricket. The uncontrollable outburst like that "woo" stuff, I can understand, but asking someone half your age up to your room on the pretense of "Balloon animals"? He has to understand it sounds creepy.
Don't get me wrong, he was probably just lonely, and I know it's difficult for someone with neurological problems to have relationships, believe me, I know, but a perfect stranger? I suppose I'll chalk it up to that being one of his "uncontrollable outbursts".
This reminds me of the time I talked to a wrong number for a half-hour. Actually, it wasn't a wrong number. This guy's date, for lack of a better word, had given him my private line number (when I had one) to call. "Hi, is Randy there?"
"Sorry, there's no one here of that name. Maybe you have the wrong number."
"No, this is the number he gave me."
"Well, this is a private line, I'm sorry."
This guy went on for a half hour about how he never considered himself gay, but he got together with this guy "Randy" at a bar, and how he'd liked his experience but he felt weird and confused and guilty. I reassured him that he had only been experimenting and that one experience doesn't necessarily pigeonhole him into one type of sexuality. I spent a half hour playing psychologist to this needy, persistent wrong number, as we tried to figure out where "Randy" might be, etc. I won't give the clown's name, and I didn't know the wrong number's name, but I will mention this "Randy" because he was a dick, okay? Just because he wanted to ditch last night's fling, I had to console a stranger on the phone in one of the strangest situations I've ever been in.
Again, I ask: Why does this stuff always happen to me?