When I was a kid, there was the terror of the “white van.” I was told by countless police officers, teachers, relatives and various cartoon animals that under no circumstance was I to approach the “white van” or I would be kidnapped by a ruthless villain who did unspeakable things to children. I imagined it was Gargamel from the Smurfs. When I was ten years old, a guy in a white van did approach me. I ran like hell. It turned out it was an ice cream truck. I’ve never looked at ice cream trucks the same. Growing up, I was constantly told not to speak to strangers. Even at Halloween, when trick or treating, I was just supposed to grab the candy and run. I wasn’t supposed to stop and go into depth about how I chose my costume or be lured inside their house. When we got home, an adult usually checked our already half eaten bag of candy to make sure there were no razor blades, rocks or broken bottle glass. I couldn’t understand why grown people would want to hurt children.
It’s a cliché but it’s true, when you live in a large city, most people don’t speak to you unless it’s life or death. Occasionally I get, “Can you move,” in a crowded metro car from a busy lady who tries to smile but her eyes scream at me to move faster. Other than the occasional homeless person begging for change, the millions of people in the city ignore each other. It’s a science, strangers protecting their personal space. If I’m on a crowded elevator, I make sure my eyes are on the floor or the ceiling. If I’m in a crowded restaurant, I keep my focus on my date or I study the menu too intensely and I try not to listen to the couple next to me or care what the table across from me is eating. And especially in the men’s bathroom, there’s never a good time to start a conversation. I’ve seen sitcoms where women talk in the public bathrooms like it’s their living rooms. They even pass each other toilet paper and tampons. But men, god forbid, if you have to take a shit in a men’s public bathroom, if there’s no toilet paper, he’d rather wipe it with his hand or whatever is in his pocket, even the lent before he sticks his head underneath the stale and ask another man to pass the toilet paper. I lived in a brownstone duplex for three years and it took me two years to finally speak to my neighbor. I’d seen him in the hall, we would quickly glance into each other eyes and then look away. We had the awkward head nods and polite greetings, but never a real conversation other than “is your water on?” It took me two years to figure out that we had the same first name. I just knew he had a lot of girlfriends but they all looked alike but varied in weight. It was as if he was collecting the same girl in different brands. He knew I liked to drink a lot from all the empty liquor bottles on trash day. When I would hear him arguing with his current girlfriend, I would ignore it. When he would hear me drunk and cursing at somebody at five o’clock in the morning he ignored it. Yet, I was a little upset when he didn’t invite me to his birthday party since I was next door and I was going to hear the music and the laughing and the dancing. It just seemed odd, a lack of courtesy. Of course, I wouldn’t have gone. So I had a party of my own two months later, to show him how it felt. He called the cops on me.
In my grocery store, I’m usually trying to get in and get out without much fuss. It was a Saturday night. I first walked to the ATM to get money. And then I walked to the Chinese liquor store that always seemed to have the gallon of Bacardi on sale, seven dollars less than any other liquor store in the area. I don’t know what it is about Asian stores, but they always seemed to have some sort of hook-up. I could get 25 chicken wings and a blue cheese bucket for 5.95, that’s a steal. Even the Chinese bus, a roundtrip ticket was like only twenty bucks to New York from DC. But as always, there’s a downside, on the ride back, you might have to sit on somebody’s lap. And those chicken wings may have something to do with all those pictures of missing pets in the area. And I swear, the Bacardi was watered down, but it did the job, so I never complained. My last stop was the grocery store. I had spent most of my money on the liquor and had planned to go out that night, so the only thing I could afford to eat was generic hotdogs and Raman noodles. I am also obsessed with the Food Network channel and was eager to see after a couple of cocktails what I could do with a quart of possibly spoiled milk, mustard, roman noodles, barbeque sauce, generic hotdogs and some cheese. I was also well known at the hospital emergency room.
So I’m standing in line with my groceries, and it was a long line, I only had four items, but the less than 15 line was longer. The wait got worse when I noticed my MP3 player was dead. And I didn’t bring my cell phone to call a friend to chat about something useless. And I was too far away from the magazine rack to flip through the latest pages of “O” magazine or Vogue and not look too gay. I was stuck somewhere in the middle of the beauty products and boxes of Tide on sale. I started to feel nervous. I had nothing to distract me from all the people in the grocery store. I could make the impending mistake of making eye contact. And then it happened. I heard a voice. I knew it wasn’t from the health freak nerd in front of me. He was making me feel bad about my groceries with his low fat milk, his wheat tortillas, his fat free yogurt, bananas and vitamin pills. He was basically screaming at me that he was going to live longer than me. I wanted to kick him in the back of his head and pour some processed cheese down his throat. The voice was coming from the back of me. I started not to turn around. I figured the voice would give up. But she didn’t. She spoke to me again. I quickly turned around. She looked like a hippie. She was an older white woman in baggy clothes and had some odd Bob Marley scarf wrapped around her head. Her dirty blond hair fell through the cracks. I tried to smile, as if to say leave-me-the-fuck alone, but she persisted. She wanted to know if it was going to rain. I immediately felt violated, like she was a stranger and touching all my private parts. My eyes searched frantically around to the store to see if anyone was witnessing this hippie old woman molest me. I caught the eyes of a bored young man. He just shook his head and went back to reading the ingredients from a box of cereal. I quickly became upset and a little offended. What made the hippie woman think that she could speak to me? Did I look like one of those people who wanted to have a friendly conversation? And if I did, that meant I also looked like one of those people that constantly got robbed. I didn’t know what to do. I felt panicked. So to get back in control of the situation, I told the old hippie, that I personally checked the weather before I left home and it wasn’t going to rain. I hoped because I was a black male she would believe me, since all weathermen are black. I think it’s in the black gene. We can dance, play basketball and predict the weather. The old hippie quieted for a moment, and then she started up again. She just wanted to talk about the damn weather. I didn’t say another word to her, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone. But I did smile. I shouldn’t have smiled. I should’ve just rolled my eyes or said something lewd or acted like I didn’t speak English. But she kept talking and I was at least another five minutes from the magazine rack. I was stuck at grandma’s house without a ride.
But I couldn’t understand why it was so bad. I mean, why did I feel uncomfortable? She was a harmless older woman. I didn’t think she was going to rob me. I didn’t think all my friends would find out that I was kind to a stranger and laugh at me. So I decided not to be such a bastard. The grocery store line was moving slower than numbers on the cashier’s paycheck, so she was in no hurry. I relaxed. I took my earphone out of my ear, to suggest to the old hippie she had all my attention. At first the conversation was just polite talk. I asked what type of flowers she was planting in her garden. I suggested to her that she probably not put her winter coat back up because the weather could drop really low again. It wasn’t so bad, polite conversation.
When we got to the magazine rack the conversation changed. On the cover of Newsweek was a picture of some man I’ve never seen before, and the title read: Big Brother knows whom you call. Is that legal, and will it help catch the bad guys?
The old hippie recognized the picture immediately. She became irate like he owed her money. I was focusing on the latest issue of Marie Claire. The older hippie yanked the magazine off the rack. She wanted to know how I felt. I immediately felt stupid. I knew a little about the government bugging the phone, but I had no worries because I’ve only threatened the President among close friends and not on the phone. The old hippie woman wanted to know what I felt about the situation. Honestly, I had no opinion. I barely voted in the last election. And then she started on George Bush and suddenly I felt tricked. I felt like the kid who decided to trust the damn “White van.” I fell for the candy. She said she hated George Bush and that she never called him ‘president” but “douchebag” or “that idiot.” I had no desire to debate politics. I really didn’t care. Also, it was a dangerous territory. People are often crazy about their values and religion. Yes, I had my opinions on Bush, it would surprise most, but I didn’t feel like arguing. I remember back in college during the O.J. Simpson trail. I worked at the local Wal-Mart and I would get every other white customer come up to me and ask me what I felt about the trial. I really didn’t have an opinion. I didn’t care if he did it or not. But I couldn’t say that out loud.
I knew I needed to plot my escape from the old hippie. I suddenly remembered why people were strangers, because I didn’t feel like sharing my life story and values with every crazy lunatic. The old hippie was really pushing me to form an opinion on my government. I couldn’t imagine why she would think I would agree with her. All I wanted to do was get home and drink my gallon of watered-down Chinese store rum. Finally, I admitted to her that I voted for George Bush. I was young and angry and acting out. I didn’t know better but I didn’t think he should be impeached. The look on her face was like a child molester finding out that kid he’d just kidnapped suffered from leprosy. She threw me back to the street. She no longer wanted to be polite. I was suddenly a stranger to her. She couldn’t trust me.
On my walk home, I made sure not to make eye contact with passing strangers. I didn’t speak to my neighbor. I got inside my home and locked my four locks. I felt safe again. I vowed to never speak to strangers again. It was a landmine.
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