DANCING FOE

I don’t know what it is about me, but I seem to attract a certain breed of guys…like the ones who lack chiseled features, sobriety and gainful employment. It’s not that chiseled features are important to me, in fact, I tend to gravitate towards the guys that are a little chubby and absolutely adorable, but I do have a some standards, which I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. I am aware this sounds conceited and utterly shallow, and it may very well be, but at least it’s completely honest.

This whole inner-dialogue about my standards in the opposite sex was brought on by the most recent pick-up attempted on me. To be fair, I must explain I was wearing quite the low cut shirt this particular day, with no bra, so I might have appeared ‘easy’, though my outfit choice was based purely on the fact that there were no other options, since everything was in the washer. Anyway, I went into a certain submarine sandwich chain restaurant to get lunch. I saw an old friend in line ahead of me and we chatted for a few moments before I ordered to the only clerk standing behind the counter. At the register, I took the sandwich extended to me and handed over my card.

Cut for length of weirdo conversation.

“What happened to you?” the male clerk asked me abruptly.
“Excuse me?” I asked him. He pointed to the ragged band-aid on my index finger, “Oh, I was cutting onions…” The clerk then launched into a short speech about kitchen safety practices before telling me.
“If I had a band-aid, I give it to you,” his broken English was due to what I presume is his Hispanic heritage.
“Aw, thanks,” I hand over my mom’s debit card and look at my band-aid. I thought to myself, I really need to change my band-aids more often. As we waited the few seconds it took for the card to be accepted, the Spanish clerk looked down at my right hand that was resting on the counter.
“You have pretty hands,” he told me and then proceeded to give my hand a single stroke with his.
“Oh…um…thank you…” I felt uncomfortable, having a total stranger caress my hand, as if my invisible bubble of personal space had a security breech.
He studied the receipt before attempting to say my mother’s name, “V-v-ivian…******. V-vivian, you are beautiful.”
“Oh! Um…thank you! But that’s not my name.” I really am not sure why I’m even saying anything but a simple thanks.
“Oh. What is your name?”
“Lizzy,” I replied.
“Lissy,” he repeated, “Well, Lissy, you are beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I tell him again. Let me leave now.
“You must come again,” he orders.
“I will,” I turn and leave.

I haven’t been back since then. This guy was at an age between twenty-five and thirty-five, working as a sandwich maker and hitting on teenage girls. I know a girl who recently worked there and quit after two days because her boss, who happens to have a thing for hands, was giving her too much attention.

Another incident involving a guy I wasn’t particularly attracted to but was obviously trying to pick me up occurred in Chicago. I was doing some browsing around a trendy part of town, full of little boutiques and coffeeshops when I saw this fella sitting on a step outside some building’s exit, panhandling. I’m not good at saying “no” to people, or “get the fuck away from me or I’ll scream rape” to people, so, I avoided the conflict as I so often do, and ducked into a smoke shop to browse their pipes…for tobacco use only. I spent several minutes inspecting the cases before I decided to leave. Shit. He was still there, and there was no avoiding him if I wanted to head towards the L. I bit the bullet and walked by him.

“Miss, do you have fifty-five cents to spare?” he asked as I passed by.
Shit again. I turned and looked at him. It was broad daylight, on a busy street full of pedestrians whom I hoped might take notice if a young girl was mauled.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “I think I do.” I pulled my backpack over my shoulder and began to search through it for my wallet. I found a bunch of coins and picked out the exact change he asked for.
“Oh thank you so much ma’m,” I smiled at him. His face was kind and vibrant, despite being a little worn and weathered for his age. He had very dark skin, high cheekbones, and slightly messy, short dreadlocks. “Are you a photographer?” he asked me, nodding at the Canon around my neck.
“Oh, um. Yeah, you could call me an amateur, I guess”
“I bet you’re great,” the man insisted.
“Well, my dad’s the real photographer. He’s a professional.”
“That must be handy. Do you get to use his equipment and stuff?” He seemed genuinely interested.
“Yeah, well he’s taught me a lot of the technical side of it,” I readjusted the backpack and smiled at him, “I’d better go.”
“You have a good day, beautiful.”
“Oh…um thanks! You too!” I responded as I walked away, smiling.

A few blocks later as I made my way down the same street, I heard a voice call out behind me, but since I didn’t know anyone in this city and didn’t hear my name, I assumed it was intended for someone else.

“Hey!” I heard the voice nearer, this time it sounded a little winded, “I caught up to you.”
I turned to see the same man walking up to me. I hadn’t realized how tall he was until now. He was easily 6′2″, which is a giant next to my 4′11″ frame.

“Oh. Hi!” I was surprised to see him there and I was starting to wonder which pocket that can of mace my mom had given me before I left Nashville was stowed away in.

I kept walking as he spoke, “I’m glad I caught you. I can’t really run in these shoes, guess I’m lucky I’ve got these long legs, huh?” I looked at him, his legs were quite long indeed. He was skinny and wearing some beat up shoes dress shoes.

I chuckled and he dove into a story about his other shoes being at his dad’s place in the suburbs and how he couldn’t get out there to get his stuff.

“So, you live around here?” He asked.
“Actually no,” I blushed, “I’m just visiting.”
“Oh, somewhere nearby?”
“No, actually, I’m from Nashville.”
“Ah, Nashville,” the guy shook his head and sounded a little defeated but perked right back up, “Well how long are you going to be here?”
I stopped walking and looked him in the eyes. “Are you asking me out?”
“I’m trying.” I couldn’t help but smile again.
“Oh,” I said, and started walking again, “I’ll be here until Monday.”
“Are you busy tonight?”
“I am,” I replied, “Dinner with my dad.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know quite yet.”
“Oh,” he thought for a moment, “Could I get your number maybe?”
“Sure, I guess.” He pulled out card from his beaten up wallet and I produced a pen. I then wrote down my name and my ACTUAL PHONE NUMBER.
He looked at the card once I handed it back to him, and said my name aloud.
“You’re Liz,” I nodded and he told me, “I’m John.”
“It’s nice to meet you, John.” I put my hand out for him to shake. He paused and then took my hand in his, bent down a little and kissed it quickly. I probably turned beet red at this moment, as I so often do.
“You are beautiful, Liz.” I shook my head and shrugged his compliment away, “No, really. You are.”
I smiled and said this was the station I needed to get on. “Okay,” John told me, “I don’t have a phone, so I’ll use a pay phone and I’ll probably call you tomorrow around noon?”
“Okay, goodbye John.”
“Bye, gorgeous.”

I boarded the train and couldn’t help but smile to myself. John never called, and that was fine with me. I realized later that I’d never put down my area code, and joked to my dad that he probably couldn’t panhandle enough coin to use a payphone. My dad wondered what sort of date he would have even been able to take me on, would he have to ask me for the cash to cover dinner?

I was told by many people how very stupid I was to give him my real number and that I shouldn’t have even told this homeless guy my name. My father warned me about talking to strange men, even if they seemed kind. I nodded through everyone’s speeches about safety and agreed I shouldn’t give out my number to strangers, secretly I was pleased with my encounter. I felt beautiful and wanted, and though I had no desire to see him again, it was the first time I’d felt that way after K ended things. So I’m working on a list of standards, so far I’ve got this:

Lizzy’s Tough Standards

That really narrows the playing field, huh?