Walk with Me

Let’s talk about awkward moments in public. Picture it, you’re a guy walking up the street and there is a women ahead of you, who is both shorter than you (therefore a shorter stride) and walking slowly. You know by mid-block you’ll overtake her. And you also know that you’re going to creep her out when she hears your footsteps approach, and even more so if you walk quietly and suddenly appear in her peripheral vision just a few feet away. You don’t like the thought of her thinking of you as some psycho or predator. On the contrary: you are a polite young man with no criminal record who is minding his own business. In spite of dragging your feet, you gain on her and consider crossing the street, even though you will have to re-cross up ahead to arrive at your destination.

You think that perhaps the best solution is to address her, pretend you’re lost and ask her for directions to diffuse the situation. You realize that she is attractive and tell yourself that in a bar, at the library, or in a deserted small town bus station, you would have found the courage to chat her up and get her number. You take this bus station scenario a bit further in your imagination: the music kicks in, a nice thumping hip-hop beat, and she starts to sing about catching the last bus ‘cause she’s leaving you for a better life. Nevertheless, you get up on her like a GI Joe action figure flexing in your greasy overalls -a stark contrast to her clean and conservative pantsuit. Abruptly, a cadre of coed dancers explodes into the station and falls into choreographed step behind you, in a style that is vaguely reminiscent of Brazilian capoeira. Needless to say, they are all gorgeous. Pan to the ticket window where the old gray-haired man stares on incredulous at the sudden turn of events. Invariably, the fan starts blowing, agitating her hair and blowing her blazer wide to reveal . . . a swarm of Africanized bees covering her breasts like a bikini top. You find yourself torn between the desire to have them take flight and your fear of being stung to death. Oh, and did I mention that at just this moment soda bottles drop into everybody’s hands and we all take a long, satisfying drink?

Yes, as you gain on her, you realize that you must do something drastic to put her at ease. Perhaps when walking by you should deliberately trip and fall flat on your face in front of her? She couldn’t possibly find you threatening then, especially if you faked an injury to exploit her motherly instinct. And if she lived nearby, she might even invite you in and fix up a bag of ice to put on your “sprained” ankle. And what if she gave you a cold beer, also, to ease your suffering? Well, wouldn’t that be the cat’s meow. And then the two of you would be lonely together standing in the kitchen of her apartment, and there would be a moment when, leaning close, she would want to love you because you are weak and lonely, like all men. And you would let her. And whether you choose to be the man or woman in this scenario, reader, every bit of nudity would be edited out of your imagination, just like it is in soap and shampoo commercials that show everything but the goods, except in Scandinavia. If necessary, there would be little black bars in strategic locations, because this is, after all, a family-oriented blog.

But then, perhaps there is a darker side to the story. Perhaps this young man, who is or isn’t you, is actually a very charismatic psychopath who doesn’t play clumsy and helpless and fake injuries to score with women, but rather to chop them into little pieces to be kept in plastic bags in his freezer along with the other mammal species he hunts for sport. Because people like that exist. It takes all kinds, as the popular saying goes. And because of his charm, wit, and dashing good looks, when he gives his popular summer barbecues no one’s the wiser to the meat on the grill. Well, that’s what she’s worried about when she hears you approaching. Like all of us, she’s seen too much television, and in particular the nightly news, which seems to wallow in that sort of grotesque sensationalism. So before you get within ten feet of her, she has already crossed over to the other side of the street. Inside her purse, the Africanized bees teem like a pulsing can of mace ready to defend her.