As much as I appreciated your request to remove my blouse, climb over the driver's seat, into the back seat, and press my mammary glands to the rear window, I had to decline. You see, although I was at the light, I knew it would change soon and I simply didn't have enough time to accomplish your request and still remain a courteous driver.
I wasn't exactly sure where the extremely loud voice originated as I pulled up to the light. I heard a massive voice snicker, "How was the Slipknot concert?" followed by an oblique reference to a male appendage. I assumed you meant to address the skinny, dejected kid with the black shirt and shoulder length hair that had recently walked past my car. There all four of you were, in your sad, late model Nissan, clad in primary colored polos and sporting slick hair, right behind my car. I heard another disparaging remark tossed at a grandfather in another car.
"HEY, are your windows down?" One of you wearing white aviator glasses boomed in my direction, followed by the request to doff my duds. It's no exaggeration to say that I was rapidly descending into an overwhelming fury.
I contemplated the situation: there was always a bird or two to flip. However, upon further review, I determined that extending that finger would simply please you. If it came to a battle of verbal acuity, you would lose. I may not appear to have mastered the vocabulary of a stevedore, but I worked in kitchens, and have an expansive library of barbed insults at my employ that would leave you gasping with fear and shock. But no, words were not enough. The light changed, we all advanced, and my plan was set.
You see, you harassed the wrong girl.
Don't worry, it happens sometimes.
You think you can toss out such remarks with impunity, and perhaps with any other girl you could. But you don't know me, and you don't know how I despise the kicking of the weak by bullies of any stripe, let alone the disgusting harassment of my gender. You see, I'm not 14 anymore. Nor am I 19. In fact, I'm at an age and of a mind that no one can tender such offensive nonsense in my presence or in my society.
And that is why I called the police.
And why I told them you were driving with the bullhorn out the driver's side window. And why I gave them your license plate, and yes, I did it while boxing you in to your lane. And as you turned into the gas station while informing another girl, this one younger and far more intimidated than I was, that she, too, should consider her clothing optional and her body public property, I told the dispatcher exactly where you were.
Can you imagine my sense of satisfaction to see that cruiser turn left into the parking lot? Probably not. It's probably beyond your ability to comprehend. I can't wait until you have to explain to your mother what happened, because your shame will be overwhelming. And if it's not, maybe you'll just think twice about casting stray comments in the direction of women, because we're not all nice, and we're not all doormats, and we won't all ignore your depraved ilk.
If I'm telling the total truth, it's not just about your callous lack of respect for my gender (which is abhorrent enough,) it's not just that you're yelling at elderly people, it's about that kid.
Oh, you remember, the skinny kid who looks like he doesn't have a friend in the world. Yeah, that kid, because that kid looks like he's been on the receiving end of your punches, your insults, and your jackhole-ness, and you know what? He doesn't deserve that. You're the disparaged male appendage because you use your popularity and social advantage as a cudgel, and I won't have it.
So suck on that, you popped-collar failures of hooligans, I can't wait to meet you at a light again.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009