Perverts and Creeps

Last night I went out. On a Monday. In Rochester. I don't think I need to explain why my expectations were low. Although, as Meghan and I approached the first bar, I thought of a memorable night there which happened on a Monday last summer. I remember that it was a Monday, because going out on a Monday feels weird. The patrons are older, have more liver damage, are either perpetually belligerent or perpetually catatonic and are considerably more desperate than your average weekend crowd. The upside is that ordering a drink is not like being on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. It is, however, an environment where it is wise to have a man with you upon arrival. For obvious reasons. Statistics show that it decreases cases of sexual harassment exponentially. My friend Brandon wouldn't come because he had to work at five the next morning, so Meghan and I were on our own. We walked in, counted seven people and headed out the back door without even buying one drink.

We went across the street to my roommate Jenny's favorite bar and grabbed a booth. At first, it was pretty lame. The guy in the next booth was trying to get us to join him, but he was denied and Meghan and I immersed ourselves in girl talk. A random guy stopped at our booth, interrupted us and tried to start a conversation. He was either too drunk to notice, or too obtuse to care that our body language was anything but inviting. He asked to sit down. Being the passive-aggressive creatures that women often are, we allowed him to join us, but attempted to get rid of him by appearing to be completely uninterested in anything he had to say. It was lost on him. He thought we were shy. That is when I decided to acknowledge his presence and speak. I told him that I most certainly was not shy, hoping that he would infer that I was simply bored. He kept talking.

It turned out alright because he ended up being bait. Bait Boy knew this kid that I wanted Meghan to stop because she recognized him from work. She wouldn't do it, even though she knows I have a weakness for black guys. But divine intervention put this guy right at our booth when he stopped to talk to Bait Boy. He joined us, and we found out that he possesses beautiful eyelashes and the ability to make a conversation a lot less boring. When we were talking about Meghan moving to the south side of Chicago, and me going to South Africa, Bait Boy informed me that South Africa has the highest rate of car-jackings anywhere. I was less than fascinated by this tidbit of information. I told him that they also had the highest incidence of reported rape in the world. His mind was still on the car thing. He said, "But I guess that you won't be bringing your car there..." To which I replied, "Yeah, but I will be bringing my vagina." This caused Eyelashes, whose attention seems to wander occasionally, to take notice. "Vagina? What about your vagina?" he asked. Meghan said, "She's taking it with her to Africa." He said that he hoped so, and that he didn't realize it was a snap-on. Later, when we were talking about street smarts, and I said that I had them, he laughed and said, "I don't know too many niggas sittin' in the hood sayin', hey, 'Let's go to Africa tomorrow.'" Point taken. Later when Bait Boy mentioned an after party attended by himself, a guy that worked for him, Meghan and me, we made our escape. We pretended to go to the bathroom and headed for the back door. Eyelashes ended up walking eleven of the twelve blocks home with us. When we were in a well-lit hospital area, he said goodbye. We agreed later that he was the best thing to happen to us all night.

When we got home, we decided that we should go to Perkins. We had plans to go to breakfast in the morning, but it was pretty much a craps shoot as to whether I would get up for it. So we decided to go then. When we were eating, a group of Middle-Eastern guys who had been at the same bar as us walked in. I had chosen to wear a shirt that made my boobs look absolutely fabulous, and I asked Meghan if she ever wondered what Muslim guys, especially ones from other countries, thought about American girls. Take us for example. We went out by ourselves to a bar where we sat with men that we didn't know. We let a stranger walk us to a home where single girls lived without their parents, and where I changed into a shirt that revealed my boobs. Then we went out at three in the morning to get breakfast that we didn't cook, with money that we earned ourselves. While we waited for our cab, one of the Arabs went out for a smoke. As he passed, he told me that there was a spot. "A spot for what?" I asked. He replied, "For you to sit," and pointed to the empty spot where he had been sitting with his friends. This was one of several uncomfortable encounters with that particular group of men, in addition to those with another man who was sitting by himself doodling drawings on his napkin that appeared to be Schizophrenic in nature.

Finally, our cab came and I was excited to see that Dick was our driver. The two of us go way back. All the way to a slutty cop Halloween costume the night my camera got stolen. He has driven me on several occasions since. I told him that he was my very favorite driver because he didn't creep me out. I asked him if I could request him when I called for a cab. He informed my that was against policy. He gave me his private number, and was adamant that I not tell anyone. If he discovers this blog, I will probably end up in a river somewhere. He ran me through the procedure for bootlegged cab rides, like it was a CIA operation: I call him on the special number and he tells me how long it will be. If I don't want to wait I call the cab company's legitimate number. And he is off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Wow, Dick, pretty heavy shit you're bringing me into. Could you run me through that procedure again, but more slowly this time since it's sooooo remarkably different from the regular way that I would call a cab? Then he asked me for my number, and I told him that I didn't have a phone. He told me again not to tell ANYBODY that he gave me his private number. Congratulations Dick, you now rank right up there with the cabbie who asked to see my underwear, and the one that shut off the meter a few blocks early thanks to my two best assets. The cab company must have a quota for creeps and perverts. However, judging by the rest of the night, they don't have a monopoly on them. It was an interesting night, but I think I will stick to going out weekends.