(no subject)
No Me Molestas
I needed to purchase a new television. I had one, yes, but it had a thirteen-inch screen and was totally unsuitable for watching anything from more than a few feet away, and who wants to sit that close to the screen unless you’re a little girl being contacted by the dead through the cable fuzz because your house was built over an Indian cemetery? I don’t fit that demographic and thus, needed to go to the nearest electronic store as soon as possible to rectify my movie-viewing experience.
The only real obstacle in my way (besides not having a car with which to transport any teevee I should buy) was that the immediate exterior of the local Best Buy happens to be populated by a hooverville of menacingly toothless bums, who are prone to shouting obscenities and other such behavior as people enter the store. I’ve been told, in no uncertain terms, that God hates me and I’m going to burn for my sins in this world no fewer than three times. If God really wanted to tell me that, don’t you think once was enough? And wouldn’t he speak through the metatron and not some haggard woman with crack addict eyes who smells like a dumpster? Not so, apparently.
At least I have developed a keen eye for picking out the crazies and avoiding them as much as possible. Equipped with those, and my friend Casey (and his car) in tow, I figured I had minimized any problem with getting a new television from point A, Best Buy, to point B, my apartment, about a mile away. Simple enough - with the car, we were able to bypass the pathway on which most of the crazies congregate, the major artery leading to the Ralph’s and, naturally, the Best Buy.
As we strode boldly in, a very regular-looking woman, with a parka on and well-kept hair, approached and asked us, in a normal voice, if we listened to the radio. Naturally, I figured this was merely an individual promoting a radio show, or more likely peddling the LA Times, since those people always ask a totally unrelated question before starting their spiel.
“No, thanks,” we both answered, and made for the entrance, politely smiling.
“Dairy Queen,” she responded cryptically. Casey and I looked at each other, confused, but gave it no passing thought. Perhaps we had misheard, or misunderstood. But it didn’t matter. We got inside, and stopped to peruse the large bin of DVDs perennially on sale. We gave a few passing glances, made fun of how badly Demi Moore’s career has plummeted, and looked up to move toward the televisions.
And there the woman in the parka was again, having appeared mysteriously before us like the mythic black dog, a harbinger of woe to come. Her face was contorted, and she pointed at me.
“You listen up. You stay away from my daughter, do you understand me?” she spat angrily.
I was dumbfounded. “Excuse me?” I said meekly.
“You heard me just fine. Stay the hell away from my daughter.”
Casey stood there, shocked, waiting to hear my response. A passing woman, with her child, looked confusedly on for a moment.
“I watched you crawl into her window in the night. You went in there… with her. And she’s only fourteen. So stay away from her, and from me. I don’t want to see you around our home again.”
Since when do the crazies dress in normal clothes? This woman slipped completely under my radar. And she was growing more agitated with each passing second. I tried, as peacefully and calmly as possible, to respond in a way that would extricate me from the conversation without arousing her schizophrenia any further.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” I said, and grabbing Casey’s arm, hurried in the direction of the televisions. I hoped to grab as little attention from other people as possible, and felt that my quiet escape had done the trick.
“CHILD MOLESTER!!” she yelled through the store. And that had everyone’s attention. I’m glad the other woman with the child was already in line, or something, because that likely would have made her look confusedly on for longer than just a moment.
I did my best to ignore her, striding across as much ground as possible to elude her, and she eventually went her own way, likely confident that I would, in fact, no longer be coming around her home.
Did she even have a home, I wondered, or for that matter, a daughter? I hoped, for her phantom daughter’s sake, that she didn’t. It was unsettling that the crazies had taken to blending in amongst the common folk, so as to be virtually indistinguishable until they, say, call you a child molester in the middle of a Best Buy.
“Well, um, I’m glad to see that you really aren’t making up the bizarre things that you write about in your journal,” Casey said jokingly.
But really, how do you explain to a woman that I would be the least likely candidate for sneaking into her home through her daughter’s window and, you know, child molesting? Blame that jerk from the Dairy Queen who doesn’t listen to the radio, but not me. The truth of the matter is, unless her daughter has a penis and no identity disorders like her mother, I’m probably not even going to want to talk to her, let alone molest her.
I would have loved to tell her that I was sorry, and promised never to enter into her daughter’s chambers again, if she could only direct me to her son’s room, as that was where I had intended to go in the first place.
Now that I think of it, that’s probably why God hates me.
I needed to purchase a new television. I had one, yes, but it had a thirteen-inch screen and was totally unsuitable for watching anything from more than a few feet away, and who wants to sit that close to the screen unless you’re a little girl being contacted by the dead through the cable fuzz because your house was built over an Indian cemetery? I don’t fit that demographic and thus, needed to go to the nearest electronic store as soon as possible to rectify my movie-viewing experience.
The only real obstacle in my way (besides not having a car with which to transport any teevee I should buy) was that the immediate exterior of the local Best Buy happens to be populated by a hooverville of menacingly toothless bums, who are prone to shouting obscenities and other such behavior as people enter the store. I’ve been told, in no uncertain terms, that God hates me and I’m going to burn for my sins in this world no fewer than three times. If God really wanted to tell me that, don’t you think once was enough? And wouldn’t he speak through the metatron and not some haggard woman with crack addict eyes who smells like a dumpster? Not so, apparently.
At least I have developed a keen eye for picking out the crazies and avoiding them as much as possible. Equipped with those, and my friend Casey (and his car) in tow, I figured I had minimized any problem with getting a new television from point A, Best Buy, to point B, my apartment, about a mile away. Simple enough - with the car, we were able to bypass the pathway on which most of the crazies congregate, the major artery leading to the Ralph’s and, naturally, the Best Buy.
As we strode boldly in, a very regular-looking woman, with a parka on and well-kept hair, approached and asked us, in a normal voice, if we listened to the radio. Naturally, I figured this was merely an individual promoting a radio show, or more likely peddling the LA Times, since those people always ask a totally unrelated question before starting their spiel.
“No, thanks,” we both answered, and made for the entrance, politely smiling.
“Dairy Queen,” she responded cryptically. Casey and I looked at each other, confused, but gave it no passing thought. Perhaps we had misheard, or misunderstood. But it didn’t matter. We got inside, and stopped to peruse the large bin of DVDs perennially on sale. We gave a few passing glances, made fun of how badly Demi Moore’s career has plummeted, and looked up to move toward the televisions.
And there the woman in the parka was again, having appeared mysteriously before us like the mythic black dog, a harbinger of woe to come. Her face was contorted, and she pointed at me.
“You listen up. You stay away from my daughter, do you understand me?” she spat angrily.
I was dumbfounded. “Excuse me?” I said meekly.
“You heard me just fine. Stay the hell away from my daughter.”
Casey stood there, shocked, waiting to hear my response. A passing woman, with her child, looked confusedly on for a moment.
“I watched you crawl into her window in the night. You went in there… with her. And she’s only fourteen. So stay away from her, and from me. I don’t want to see you around our home again.”
Since when do the crazies dress in normal clothes? This woman slipped completely under my radar. And she was growing more agitated with each passing second. I tried, as peacefully and calmly as possible, to respond in a way that would extricate me from the conversation without arousing her schizophrenia any further.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I just don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” I said, and grabbing Casey’s arm, hurried in the direction of the televisions. I hoped to grab as little attention from other people as possible, and felt that my quiet escape had done the trick.
“CHILD MOLESTER!!” she yelled through the store. And that had everyone’s attention. I’m glad the other woman with the child was already in line, or something, because that likely would have made her look confusedly on for longer than just a moment.
I did my best to ignore her, striding across as much ground as possible to elude her, and she eventually went her own way, likely confident that I would, in fact, no longer be coming around her home.
Did she even have a home, I wondered, or for that matter, a daughter? I hoped, for her phantom daughter’s sake, that she didn’t. It was unsettling that the crazies had taken to blending in amongst the common folk, so as to be virtually indistinguishable until they, say, call you a child molester in the middle of a Best Buy.
“Well, um, I’m glad to see that you really aren’t making up the bizarre things that you write about in your journal,” Casey said jokingly.
But really, how do you explain to a woman that I would be the least likely candidate for sneaking into her home through her daughter’s window and, you know, child molesting? Blame that jerk from the Dairy Queen who doesn’t listen to the radio, but not me. The truth of the matter is, unless her daughter has a penis and no identity disorders like her mother, I’m probably not even going to want to talk to her, let alone molest her.
I would have loved to tell her that I was sorry, and promised never to enter into her daughter’s chambers again, if she could only direct me to her son’s room, as that was where I had intended to go in the first place.
Now that I think of it, that’s probably why God hates me.