(no subject)
And then there was the kid standing next to me, manically smoking a cigarette. Beaky nose, justting cheekbones, strong jaw, buzz-cut blond hair under a black baseball cap. Everything he was wearing was very new-chrome-plated cell phone clipped carefully to shiny black leather belt, bright blue shirt, a little too crisp, jeans too blue to have been worn more than once. he’d been standing next to me for a while, shuffling his feet and galncing around; I moved away when he lit the cigarette. Before he lit it, he whent through this weird, weird ritual of hyperactively hiking up his pants, adjusting his boxers, checking his cell phone was ssecure, and finding his belly button, for all I know. There was a swirl of elbows and flapping bright blue shirt over to my left for a while. I tried not to look.
He can’t hold still. He smokes the cigarette in these short little bursts, waving it around in between, kicking the sidewalk with his oversized shoes, turning his head to look up and down the street, shooting little glances rapid-fire all over the place.
He stand there just looking at my profile for a full minute, then, finally, clears his throat.
“What bus you waiting for?”
I glance at him and away.
“77A.”
He starts kicking his toes against the sidewalk again, and laughs.
“You missed it.” He sounded triumphant.
“Yeah, I know. 15 minutes til the next one, I figured I’d just wait.”
I smile while I say it, but pointedly look away again. He keeps checking for buses from both directions, with this weird little lunge where he cranes his neck out lie a chicken and twitches it back and forth, looking as far up the street as possible.
“You heading up toward Monroeville?”
Oh God, I think. Evade. He’s going to try to follow me.
“…around there,” I reply, putting my head to one side, squinting pensively, and laughing a little. My goal is to be cute and inoffensive enough that he doesn’t get mad at me for not answering his questions, but not so cute that he takes it as encouragement. It’s a fine line; he seems to be walking a knife’s edge between anger and eagerness. Fortunately, the Kellner women are the masters of giving the cold shoulder, so I’ve had excellent teachers-I’ve never seen anyone who can brush off guys as thoroughly as devastatingly as Jay can.
“Do you go to school down here?” is the next inevitable question.
I nod. He waits.
“Well, where?” he finally bursts out, starting to sound impatient. He never stop smoving, paccing back and forth under the tiny awning like a caged tiger. It’s making me really nervous. I wish the rain would stop.
“I don’t usually tell stuff like that to strangers.”
I’ve made progress; a year ago, I would’ve mumbled something in a scared breathy voice and beat a fast retreat. I felt rather proud of how strong and confident my voice sounded. Maybe a hasty retreat would’ve been a good idea at that point, but there was nowhere to retreat to but out into the rain.
He laughs, rolling his eyes as though this is the most ludicrous thing he’s heard all day.
“Well, I’m James.” He has a smile on his face, but his voice is starting to sound seriously annoyed, and he is kicking the side of the building now. Hard.
I smile as big as I can, laugh, and say it’s nice to meet him. I just keep grinning at him until he smiles back and looks away, laughing a little.
“I mean, there’s the Art Institute, Point Park…” He sounds confused but pacified. “I have friends who go to Point Park, I mean….”
I feel another rquestion coming on, so I stave it off with one of my own. This is a useful tecchnique when tilting with nosy pickup artists on buses, but has to be used very carefully-personal questions imply interest. In addition, they always seem to be on the verge of getting very very angry with you and storming off calling you a bitch.
Make them blandly impersonal as possible, so that you’re not being rude, but giving them no chance to fish for your name, birthdate, or street address.
“What do your friends major in?” Bright smile.
“Uh, well…” he seems confused. “One’s in…in teaching, I think, and the other one, he’s…” James breaks off for a moment as he does the stacatto chicken bus scan routine. “I think he’s undecided.”
“Aren’t we all?” I say jovially, squinting down the street in the opposite direction.
“So, where are you from originally? You have an accent.” He’s trying to make very intense eye contact, which is difficult to avoid since he’s dancing all over the place like a shadowboxer.
“Pittsburgh, honest,” I laugh. There was lots of laughing and smiling going on in this conversation; it must’ve looked like we were old pals.
“Every body asks me that,” I add as I see his face grow tight with annoyance once more. And he WILL NOT HOLD STILL.
“Well, yeah, but…” he launched into quite a monologue here, which I think had something to do with everybody having an accent even if you were from pittsburgh, and I think miht have ended with a question, but two thunderous busses lumbered by, so I couldn’t hear a word he said. I just stood with a lbland smile on my face, gazing longingly up the street for my bus.
James waited for a minute for my answer. He got increasingly agitated, started glancing around even more, sucking on his cigarette, pointing in short stacatto jabs at buses. He looks up the street; he looks down the street.
All of a sudden, he flings his cigarette away and ROCKETS down the street like he’s being chased by tigers. He runs out into traffic, sprints down the sidewalk, arms pumping, knees high, threading through the lunchtime crowds of pedestrians, and turns the corner.
He can’t hold still. He smokes the cigarette in these short little bursts, waving it around in between, kicking the sidewalk with his oversized shoes, turning his head to look up and down the street, shooting little glances rapid-fire all over the place.
He stand there just looking at my profile for a full minute, then, finally, clears his throat.
“What bus you waiting for?”
I glance at him and away.
“77A.”
He starts kicking his toes against the sidewalk again, and laughs.
“You missed it.” He sounded triumphant.
“Yeah, I know. 15 minutes til the next one, I figured I’d just wait.”
I smile while I say it, but pointedly look away again. He keeps checking for buses from both directions, with this weird little lunge where he cranes his neck out lie a chicken and twitches it back and forth, looking as far up the street as possible.
“You heading up toward Monroeville?”
Oh God, I think. Evade. He’s going to try to follow me.
“…around there,” I reply, putting my head to one side, squinting pensively, and laughing a little. My goal is to be cute and inoffensive enough that he doesn’t get mad at me for not answering his questions, but not so cute that he takes it as encouragement. It’s a fine line; he seems to be walking a knife’s edge between anger and eagerness. Fortunately, the Kellner women are the masters of giving the cold shoulder, so I’ve had excellent teachers-I’ve never seen anyone who can brush off guys as thoroughly as devastatingly as Jay can.
“Do you go to school down here?” is the next inevitable question.
I nod. He waits.
“Well, where?” he finally bursts out, starting to sound impatient. He never stop smoving, paccing back and forth under the tiny awning like a caged tiger. It’s making me really nervous. I wish the rain would stop.
“I don’t usually tell stuff like that to strangers.”
I’ve made progress; a year ago, I would’ve mumbled something in a scared breathy voice and beat a fast retreat. I felt rather proud of how strong and confident my voice sounded. Maybe a hasty retreat would’ve been a good idea at that point, but there was nowhere to retreat to but out into the rain.
He laughs, rolling his eyes as though this is the most ludicrous thing he’s heard all day.
“Well, I’m James.” He has a smile on his face, but his voice is starting to sound seriously annoyed, and he is kicking the side of the building now. Hard.
I smile as big as I can, laugh, and say it’s nice to meet him. I just keep grinning at him until he smiles back and looks away, laughing a little.
“I mean, there’s the Art Institute, Point Park…” He sounds confused but pacified. “I have friends who go to Point Park, I mean….”
I feel another rquestion coming on, so I stave it off with one of my own. This is a useful tecchnique when tilting with nosy pickup artists on buses, but has to be used very carefully-personal questions imply interest. In addition, they always seem to be on the verge of getting very very angry with you and storming off calling you a bitch.
Make them blandly impersonal as possible, so that you’re not being rude, but giving them no chance to fish for your name, birthdate, or street address.
“What do your friends major in?” Bright smile.
“Uh, well…” he seems confused. “One’s in…in teaching, I think, and the other one, he’s…” James breaks off for a moment as he does the stacatto chicken bus scan routine. “I think he’s undecided.”
“Aren’t we all?” I say jovially, squinting down the street in the opposite direction.
“So, where are you from originally? You have an accent.” He’s trying to make very intense eye contact, which is difficult to avoid since he’s dancing all over the place like a shadowboxer.
“Pittsburgh, honest,” I laugh. There was lots of laughing and smiling going on in this conversation; it must’ve looked like we were old pals.
“Every body asks me that,” I add as I see his face grow tight with annoyance once more. And he WILL NOT HOLD STILL.
“Well, yeah, but…” he launched into quite a monologue here, which I think had something to do with everybody having an accent even if you were from pittsburgh, and I think miht have ended with a question, but two thunderous busses lumbered by, so I couldn’t hear a word he said. I just stood with a lbland smile on my face, gazing longingly up the street for my bus.
James waited for a minute for my answer. He got increasingly agitated, started glancing around even more, sucking on his cigarette, pointing in short stacatto jabs at buses. He looks up the street; he looks down the street.
All of a sudden, he flings his cigarette away and ROCKETS down the street like he’s being chased by tigers. He runs out into traffic, sprints down the sidewalk, arms pumping, knees high, threading through the lunchtime crowds of pedestrians, and turns the corner.