“…and then after I was done porkin’ ‘er, she tells me she’s married! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Thus spoke the extremely drunk old-looking white guy with the smell and the scraggly beard in the back row of the extremely crowded 71-Limited during this evening’s commute. I write “old-looking” because alcoholism can severely age a person; he looked about 65 but could have been 20 years younger. No matter; the drunk with the smell and the scraggly beard had thoroughly convinced himself that a) he was the world’s greatest lover; b) he was the world’s greatest raconteur; and c) everyone on the bus wanted, deserved and needed to hear his stories of sexual triumph, shouted in a ragged and splintered timbre.
“Oh, man, I f—– so many women in my life an’ kissed thousan’s and thousan’s more! Hey you, cutie! Why’nt’cha gimme li’l kiss, huh? Huh? How ’bout you, hotpants? Gimme a kiss, hah! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, wai’uh’minute, this my stop, man, yo, bus driver, wai’ fo’ me, man, gotta get off, whoa, hey, check out the chick on the sidewalk, driver, lemme off man, gotta say hello to her, mebbe she ain’a frigid b—- with a stick up her a–, comin’ through, comin’ through! Where’d she go? Where’d she go? There she is!”
He disembarked and caught up with the woman with his arms flung out wide. He stood between us and the woman, so we couldn’t see what happened, but he said, “Hey, gorgeous-” and then immediately flailed and spun and shook his head and screamed in a ragged and splintered timbre, and scratched at his own face, tripped over his feet and fell, rolling into the gutter. Screaming the whole time.
She had Mace.
Yes–very definitely the wrong woman.
Vonn Scott Bair