|A story that I wish to claim as my own:
||[Jun. 20th, 2005|08:15 pm]
Somewhere in Antigua
Okay, here are the rules. I'm going to pretend that the following events happened to me, so much so that I will be employing the first person narrative here.|
So, I'm sitting outside the store, smoking a cigarette, not really wanting to get back to work. I'm not the most intimidating girl on the block, but, you know, I've had my fear and/or awe-inspiring moments, especially in terms of children.
Outside the dock, there is a murder of skateboarders (an enclave? a pride?), whose median age would be described as roughly seven and three quarters. They're skating off old pallets, doing little lame tricks and generally exhuding ass-hat-edness. I smoke, watch them whoop and dude call, and contemplate the temerity of youth.
Perhaps I'm lost in my own thoughts for a bit, or perhaps I've been distracted by the forklift sounds behind me, but when I look back at the dude-boarders, I notice that their alpha is frantically gesticulating with what appears to be a blown up condom. He prances to and fro, tosses it to his buddies, and they giggle and ponce about. Then, as I've stubbed out the cigarette, I notice that they start to huddle. "What," I say silently, "is this about?"
So, while I'm watching, the smallest skater comes up to me on the dock. He walks slowly, slightly affraid, hands behind his back. "This," I say silently, "is really strange."
And then, when he's about a foot from me, he thrusts his hands in my face, and I am utterly perplexed to find that there is a blown up condom seeking my nose.
"You like this?" he sneers, "You want it?"
I am so goddamned shocked that I nearly fall back ass-wards off the platform.
"You know you want it," he shreiks, his dudes going apeshit behind him.
Normally, I would have trout-slapped the little dickhead so good and hard that his balls would have dropped right then and there.
However, I seem to have developed some sort of post-tramautic stress symptoms at this point, and the only thing I could do is follow the condom with my eyes and laugh and laugh until tears stream down my cheeks and I start to tweet.
"Kid," I say to him between tweets, "You got scrotum. Probably unreleased scrotum at this point, but gigantic balls all the same."
The kid tires of his game, and he and his little dudes ponce off to some other adventure, but the moment stays with me, and it is not unpleasant. Going back to my shift, I realize that yes, people are mostly shitheads. But sometimes, being a shithead means you got to take risks, and if that means harrassing some lady with an inflated condom out back of the goddamn discount grocery, then who am I to deliver judgement?
Thank you, Kelly Ward.