Author’s Note: I’m not sure why
these things happen to me. Maybe I’m too friendly. Maybe my forehead has “Please!
Talk to me! Pleaaase!” written in ink visible only to men. All I know is that two
very strange men have struck up conversations with me in the last three days.
The first talked to me for half an hour in Big Lots. He said goodbye five times,
but never stopped talking. But the second was even more unusual. . .
Feeling my cell phone buzzing in
my pocket, I slow my bike to a halt and pull it out. I am in a residential
neighborhood and I scoot farther toward the curb as I check the text. Across
the road, a white SUV has pulled to the side, passenger window down, talking to
an elderly man. His shirt is blue and white checkered and tucked into khaki
pants—high, like I’m sure was the fashion when he was young. His belt is slightly
off-center.
As I replace my phone in my pocket,
the SUV drives off and the man waves in my direction, calling, “Are you waiting
for me?”
I look around, expecting to see
someone behind me. Why would he think I was waiting for him?
He keeps calling, “Waiting for
me?” I’m frozen, a deer in the headlights as he begins to cross the street. What do I do? It would be rude to ride
off, so I stay. Now I am waiting for
him.
He is in the middle of the
street, a few feet away. “Were you waiting for me to come over here?” he asks.
I give him a perplexed look and
slowly shake my head. “Um, no. I was just—my phone was—“
“Because you were looking over at
me.”
“Was I? I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t
realize.” I smile, hoping this will satisfy him.
He chuckles in a creaky sort of
way. “There’s no need to apologize. You just have to bow down and worship me.”
I stare at him, speechless. Is he. . . crazy? Is that supposed to be a
joke?
When he doesn’t crack a smile, I laugh
awkwardly. “Uuummm, no thanks. I’d rather just keep riding.”
He laughs again and comes closer.
Now he stands beside my bike. “Shake my hand,” he commands, thrusting his at
me. I notice his eyes are slightly crossed.
I sigh and shake his hand. He
bobs his arm up and down vigorously, grinning at me. I wrinkle my forehead and
give a wan smile.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Serena.” What’s the harm?
“Ooh, Shereena!” he slurs my
name. I’m not sure if it’s intentional. “I know one Shereena. She lives in
Canada, where I’m originally from.”
I make a small noise and nod
slightly, looking toward the street. Toward freedom.
“But you’re much prettier than
she is.”
“Um. That’s good to know.”
He leans forward and I recoil,
but he just taps my sunglasses. “You should take those things off. I could see
your face better.”
“Oh, well I prefer to see what’s
around me, but thanks for the suggestion.” Get
away! my brain says. Gah!
He lurches forward before I can react and slings his arm around my shoulders. I am stuck on my bike and cannot back away. Is he trying to . . . hug me? My mind plans an escape route, but he backs off after a moment. “Well, it is nice to meet you,” he says jovially, flashing a lopsided grin. “Have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” It’s the beginning of May.
“Uhhh. . .” Again—is this a joke, or is he
crazy? “You too.” My feet hit the pedals frantically.
“What do you mean, girlie?” he
asks as I start to move. “They’re not for months yet!”
“Well enjoy them when they come!”
I call back to him as I zoom down the hill.