The Crazy Man I Met

Went to the MMLA English Conference at Union Station yesterday.

After Muff and I went to an discussion led by the "Harold Pinter Society" on his monologues and Kay and I saw a panel on class structure of our society based on prime time soaps like Gossip Girl and The OC, I had a bagel. After, I got drowsy, put my head on the Einstein Bros table, and fell asleep for the first half of he next session.

I woke up with bitter taste in my mouth not wanting to bust into anything so late. I found an ice cream place and bought a smoothie. I sat down in the food court determined to finish Ragtime. I've been reading it for six years off and on. A man with grey hair, straight smile, and good build came right up to me, "Hey, that a milkshake?" he asked. I said no. It's a smoothie. He asked where I got it. I pointed. He seemed like the cheery young grandfather or even older father looking around for a place to treat his kids. I didn't pay attention to who he went back to. I read. About eight minutes later he was back. He stood very close to me. "So is a milkshake or smoothie better?" He repeated himself three times until I took my ear bud out. "It depends?" I said. Now I knew he was alone. "And where did you get it? God, your face is beautiful in the light. Where did you get it?" I pointed again. "You're not telling me a name! He picked up my smoothie and looked for a name. I don't know I said. I think you should be able to find it. It's right there. There's ice cream. "Okay. Okay. I'm not going to talk to you again. Okay. You're beautiful. How much was it? Okay." He walked away. Good.

Ten minutes went by and he came over, "I know I said I wouldn't talk to you. I'm leaving. Enjoy your milkshake." he walked outside the building this time. Done.

Ten minutes more and he comes back inside. Pulls up a seat right next to me, "I was confused before. But I know what I'm doing. Not on medication. I'm nice. I'm nice. You are beautiful. I want you to call me--" I interrupted, "I'm not from here--" "I don't care where you're from. Call me just as friends. I can't even do anything else. I really can't." He looked at my book, "and I hate to read. I hate it. I can't" and he fiddled in his wallet and pulled out a business card with just his name, number, and address. But the number was crossed out with a new one there. He asked for my name. I didn't lie. "Okay you're gunna call me now?" I nodded. He left. Fifteen minutes later he walked by and called out, "hey, hey, I know your name I'm gonna get a call from you! Friends!"

I finished the book, smoothie, and made my way to the black sexuality panel. The small group met and got Pho in the city.