I could see the man staring at me through the haze caused by the street lights and drizzle. He strode toward me, opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped short, perhaps deterred by how engaged I looked.
I was talking with a friend and waiting for a bus to go to a show and I watched him very carefully out of the corner of my eye. I did not break my chain of thought, did not break eye contact with my friend. As usual I was doing that woman thing of having half my mind on what I was doing, and half my mind on my surroundings, like a duck sleeping with one eye open. I thought of moving over to another place at the bus stop, but I was not alone and there were lots of people milling around in front of the bar next to the stop.
After a pause in our conversation, I risked a subtle glance over at the man. Yep, he was staring at me. Crap. He collapsed into a cafe chair that was out of the rain briefly, then stood up and began pissing against the wall, watching me the whole time. I silently prayed that he would not start jerking off, forcing me to take action and admit that something was happening. I hated this intrusion on my mental space, on my feeling of safety that I had a moment before.
He meandered around a bit and I put him out of my mind briefly, until he passed in front of me and my friend, not too close. I felt relief that he was moving on. Suddenly, he swooped in toward me touched my arm.
“Hey girl, what’s up?”
“NO,” I said, facing him and looking him in the eye. “Do NOT touch me.”
“What’s the problem, what’s the problem, I just want to talk,” he said. He seemed a little fucked up, but wasn’t really slurring or weaving.
“I don’t want to talk,” I said. He kept trying to talk to me anyway, and I kept repeating myself, hoping that he would give up. I was raising my voice and holding my hands out toward him, NO, back off, and the other people smoking in front of the bar and standing at the bus stop were starting to take notice.
“Oh, you can be Helen Keller,” he said. “I’ll still talk to you.” He kept repeating everything. Helen Keller, Helen Keller. “It’s all right, girl, I’m from Alaska, I’m from Alaska.” What did that have to do with anything?
“Leave me alone,” I said, forcefully.
“Hmpf,” he said, his face twisting slightly as he looked me up and down. “You know, you’re voluptuous, but your face ain’t that cute.”
“Okay,” I said. I still felt nervous, and uncertain of what he was going to do, but it looked like it was taking a turn into a very familiar place, where I would be called a bitch, or an ugly bitch. I was “voluptuous” so it looked like I had escaped the old chestnut, “fat ugly bitch.”
He went back to telling me he was from Alaska. Was this some kind of code? He was starting to piss me off, risk or no risk.
“So what? I’m from Michigan. Get away from me,” I said. He started talking about Barry Sanders. “I don’t know who that is,” I said.
“Bitch, you ain’t from Detroit!” No, I’m really not. He sneered at me again and looked at my companion. “Get that money, girl, get that money,” he said to me. Great, now I was a prostitute.
I took my phone out and told him I was calling the cops.
“I can see in you, bitch,” he said to me. “You a derelict, JUST LIKE ME. GET THAT MONEY, GIRL,” he shouted at me.
The bus came and I got on. So that is how reclaiming my space is going.
