"I don’t like people," was the first thing he said as she sat down in his tattoo chair. She was immediately intrigued. She glanced at him and tried to gauge how old he was. But, he was one of those guys who could be anywhere from age 22 to 39 and there was no way to tell. She wanted to ask his age, but thought that might be rude. Before she could even complete her thought, he asked her how old she was. Caught off guard by his question, she said "I’m old". "That’s not an answer", he replied. He had a way of seeing right through her that made her feel as if she had to tell him. Reluctantly, she gave up her age. She felt as though he had stolen a deep, dark secret from her. It wasn’t that her age was a secret. It was just that she had wanted to hold onto that piece of information for a while longer, but he had pried it from her in an instant and without any effort. Meanwhile, she still felt it would be too forward for her to ask his age. She was irritated with herself.
She sat in silence for a while, then said: "I don’t like people either." He looked at her in disbelief. It was as if he thought that she had said that just to please him or win him over, which obviously wasn’t a tactic that would work on him. But, she had meant it. She really did not care much for people either. Although, in her case, this had been a fairly recent realization. She had always thought that she liked people, but what she had seen of them lately wasn’t pretty. She had come across a quote by Charles Haddon Spurgeon that captured her sentiments exactly: "You cannot slander human nature; it is worse than words can paint it."
She felt a kinship with the man who was now busy preparing to start her tattoo. It was her first tattoo and curiously she observed his every move. He made a casual comment to the other tattoo artist in the shop. They were the only ones working that night, and it was otherwise quiet in the shop, aside from the background music playing. They were talking about music. She listened in on their conversation and felt like a fly on the wall. While she was physically present in front of them, it was as if she weren’t there. She rather enjoyed that for a while. Being part of something, yet not being expected to participate. That’s how she liked it. Just being. Sitting quietly and observing. She took it all in, the whole experience.
She liked their sense of humor; it was of the snappy, sarcastic kind. Then they grew quiet. They both went on with their work; he busily filling up the little plastic ink cups with the various of concentrations of black. She enjoyed watching him and emboldened she finally asked: "How old are you?" Even though he had made her give up her information, he was not as easy of a target. "Guess!" he said.
"Oh shit", she thought. "I suck at guessing ages. If I go low, he’ll be insulted, and if I overshoot, he’ll be offended. There’s no way to win this." So, she responded with the same sarcasm she’d overheard and enjoyed during their conversation: "Five?" His tattoo artist friend laughed, and for the first time since she walked in, he smiled. "You’re pretty funny. A smartass. I like you." Suddenly, both men’s interests turned to her and they began including her in the conversation, frequently asking her thoughts and opinions. While she liked being part of their conversation, she missed being able to just sit there and gratuitously listen in on theirs.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Nerve
He motioned for her to remove her headphones as she approached her bike. Slightly annoyed at the interruption, she removed her ear pieces and looked up at him. He was the driver of one of the horse drawn carriages downtown. She had just finished running her errands in the beautiful sunshine, and was ready to head home. She wondered what he wanted; clearly he was not looking for directions. Now curious, she waited for him to speak. He asked if the bike she was about to unlock was hers. With maternal pride, she replied in the affirmative. Her bike was a pretty sad looking piece of equipment, but it ran well and meant the world to her. It gave her the freedom and independence she craved, and her bike was the one constant in her life. It had been with her through the good, the bad, and the ugly. It was her faithful companion. Sure, it looked like it had been through a recent battle, all rusty and beat up, yet it remained sturdy and strong.
When he spoke, the carriage driver asked her if that sad piece of crap belonged to her. Shocked at the insult he had just hurled at her bike so unexpectedly, she did not respond. She just looked at him in disbelief. He was a young guy, probably in his early 20s. Unabashedly, he continued to insult her bike, asking if she was really going to ride that thing, warning her that she should not because it would probably fall apart at any moment and leave her stranded. He told her that she should buy a new bike then he asked her if she had a good job that would allow her to pay for a new bike. He subsequently looked at the shopping bag slung over her shoulder and said: “Well, judging from that bag you’re carrying, I can assume you have a credit card, so why don’t you use it to buy a new bike?” She was stunned. She could not fathom that this total stranger, whom she had not bothered in the slightest, had the nerve to speak to her in such a rude manner.
She knew that her bike had seen better days and that it had never been of high grade quality in the first place, even as it was new from the factory. But, in a way that was what made her love it so much. She felt it embodied the beauty of urban decay, and she would fondly refer to it as her ‘ghetto bike’, but to have someone else disparage it in such a condescending way was unacceptable. Yet, still caught up in the element of surprise, she responded “Yeah, I know it looks like a ghetto bike, but it’s my bike, and it’s great. I love it.” Undeterred, he continued his tirade: “That’s not even the quality of a ghetto bike. If that were a ghetto bike, the rims would be shiny and not all rusty and dirty like yours”. Unbelievable! Not only was he insulting her bike, but he was clearly just judgmental and disrespectful all around.
Demonstratively, she turned her back toward him and proceeded to unlock her bike, at which point he asked where she lived. Automatically, she gave him the name of her neighborhood, but quickly regretted it when he made yet another disparaging remark “Ha, that means you’re going to have to ride up that hill. There is no way your bike will make it up that hill. I hope you don’t ride around in your neighborhood, because the bicyclists in your neighborhood will laugh at you. By the way, what’s your name? My name’s Ben.”
Seriously? Did he just ask her name? She could not believe this was his feeble and pathetic attempt to pick her up. She wanted to tell him that insulting someone’s most prized possession and faithful companion was not likely to be a very successful pick-up strategy, but she refrained from saying anything. Instead, she just hopped on her bike and rode home, her favorite tunes drowning out all of his insults. Soon, she found herself at one with the road again.
When he spoke, the carriage driver asked her if that sad piece of crap belonged to her. Shocked at the insult he had just hurled at her bike so unexpectedly, she did not respond. She just looked at him in disbelief. He was a young guy, probably in his early 20s. Unabashedly, he continued to insult her bike, asking if she was really going to ride that thing, warning her that she should not because it would probably fall apart at any moment and leave her stranded. He told her that she should buy a new bike then he asked her if she had a good job that would allow her to pay for a new bike. He subsequently looked at the shopping bag slung over her shoulder and said: “Well, judging from that bag you’re carrying, I can assume you have a credit card, so why don’t you use it to buy a new bike?” She was stunned. She could not fathom that this total stranger, whom she had not bothered in the slightest, had the nerve to speak to her in such a rude manner.
She knew that her bike had seen better days and that it had never been of high grade quality in the first place, even as it was new from the factory. But, in a way that was what made her love it so much. She felt it embodied the beauty of urban decay, and she would fondly refer to it as her ‘ghetto bike’, but to have someone else disparage it in such a condescending way was unacceptable. Yet, still caught up in the element of surprise, she responded “Yeah, I know it looks like a ghetto bike, but it’s my bike, and it’s great. I love it.” Undeterred, he continued his tirade: “That’s not even the quality of a ghetto bike. If that were a ghetto bike, the rims would be shiny and not all rusty and dirty like yours”. Unbelievable! Not only was he insulting her bike, but he was clearly just judgmental and disrespectful all around.
Demonstratively, she turned her back toward him and proceeded to unlock her bike, at which point he asked where she lived. Automatically, she gave him the name of her neighborhood, but quickly regretted it when he made yet another disparaging remark “Ha, that means you’re going to have to ride up that hill. There is no way your bike will make it up that hill. I hope you don’t ride around in your neighborhood, because the bicyclists in your neighborhood will laugh at you. By the way, what’s your name? My name’s Ben.”
Seriously? Did he just ask her name? She could not believe this was his feeble and pathetic attempt to pick her up. She wanted to tell him that insulting someone’s most prized possession and faithful companion was not likely to be a very successful pick-up strategy, but she refrained from saying anything. Instead, she just hopped on her bike and rode home, her favorite tunes drowning out all of his insults. Soon, she found herself at one with the road again.
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