I can think of three, one creepy as hell, one plain old squicky, and one pretty innocent but a bit annoying.
1. Not that kind of "entertainment."
Now, I’m a guy, and I just don’t get hit on. MindWife has told me that I tend to flirt but I really don’t think so. I mean, really. I’m just not anything approaching a social butterfly.
However, a number of years back I was working for Future Shop, which is basically the Canadian, slightly higher-end version of (and is now owned by) Best Buy. I worked Entertainment, so I took care of DVDs, CDs and video games. I also handled calls. To one bright and sunny day around 11am I answer the phone. On the other end was some woman who set the klaxons of Squick-O-Meter blaring with her first word. She had the slightly deep, somewhat husky, slurred and lazy speech of a strung out, long-term junkie. Naturally this immediately brought to mind the image of a bony, stringy-haired, scab-covered meth-head. I don’t ordinarily get such strong impressions of people over the phone, but this was so textbook I couldn’t help it. I so wish I was wrong about it, too, as the following conversation ensued:
“Good morning Future Shop, [Mindfield] speaking, can I help you?”
“Hiiii…” That was the opener that set the hairs on the back of my neck on end. You could almost hear the dots in the pause. “Do you sell movies?”
“Yes,” I replied as evenly as I could. “Yes, we do.”
“Oh.” she said in a manner that suggested she was sorry to hear that. “Do you sell porn?”
“Um,” I couldn’t say what I really wanted to say, so I just said, “No, we don’t.”
“Oh.” She was sorry to hear that, too. It was at this point that the conversation plummeted south. “Do you like to watch porn?” she asked in a pretty matter-of-fact way that seemed to suggest she asked these sorts of questions of strangers at their places of work all the time.
Now, whether I did or not was immaterial at this point. If my Squick-O-Meter could be heard by anyone but me, everyone in a three-mile radius would be stricken deaf just then. Knowing this, I wasn’t about to give her any reason to continue the conversation, so I said as curtly as possible, “No, not really. No.”
“Oh.” We hadn’t hit bottom yet. “Would you like to watch porn with me?”
I’m pretty non-confrontational, and despite knowing this woman was probably three sheets and a navy battalion to the wind, I still wanted to try and end this as tactfully as possible. “No, sorry.” Again, very terse. Maybe she’d get the point. Or maybe not.
“Why not?” she asked. Still plummeting.
“Because,” I explained, wondering at this point if management would excuse the use of profanity and personal insults in light of the situation. Instead, I just said, “I’m married.”
“So?” she asked. Why didn’t I see that one coming? And why haven’t I said because the number of desperate men you’ve doubtless slept with is exceeded only by the number of track marks on your arms yet?
“So I don’t cheat on my wife.” Better yet, why haven’t I just hung up?
“I could show you things she can’t.” thud Hang up? Great idea!
click
Part of me spent the rest of the day worrying that she was going to show up and try and pick me up in person, or worse, stab me to death for crank money. This was mitigated only by the probability that she was too stoned to remember the number or company she dialed, much less who she spoke to. Just the same, I stopped giving my name after that call.
2. If I did remember, I’d wish I didn’t.
There is a variety story situated in the center of the four-building apartment complex I live in. A couple of years ago MindWife and I were down there just picking up a few things on a weekend after the mall had closed. As we approached the counter to pay for our stuff, some woman comes out of an aisle, spots me and says, “Hi!” very enthusiastically. She was thin – one might even say stringy – and a little taller than me with dirty blonde hair. She also looked high, a condition in which she further looked like she spent a great deal of time. What is it with me and druggies? Do I look like a blunt?
“Hi,” I respond politely.
She looks at me expectantly for a moment. “Don’t you remember me?”
I’d have remembered that, if only because she looked like someone I’d rather forget.
I’d barely managed to respond in the negative before she stepped in and hugged me, murmuring “Oh, it’s so good to see you!” She smelled like beer and pot. Mostly pot.
MindWife was behind me, no doubt torn between wanted to snicker and trying to work out what the hell is going on. It’s just as well. The deer-in-the-headlights look my face was no doubt plastered with would have pushed her well into “snicker” territory. I said nothing and kept my arms firmly at my side.
She disengaged, my negative response evidently having finally made its way through the haze of smoke and into her consciousness. “You know, at [so-and-so’s] party?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
“Oh,” she said, brimming with only slightly less glee. “I’m sure it was you!”
Again, I disclaimed responsibility for being that person.
“Wow, you look just like him!” she said.
Granted, there was a chance it was simply mistaken identity, a position strengthened in particular by her condition. Still, it had a nasty pickup vibe. Not the worst come-on ever, but squicky nonetheless. MindWife teased me about it the whole walk back.
3. Thomas Dolby was right.
It’s the late 80s. I moved in with a buddy of mine up in Seabright, Ontario, just outside of Orillia. His parents had had a house built just off of Lake Dalrymple, so it was a nice (if hardcore boondocky) setting. He and I found ourselves cruising around downtown Orillia one nice, sunny afternoon. The music was blaring out of the open windows in his car which, all things considered, didn’t even qualify as a beater. We’re stopped at the lights and a couple of girls walk up to the passenger side (where I was sitting) to ask what we’re listening to. They were moderately cute. The conversation is generally brief but results in them asking us to meet them at a local Harvey’s for some food in a few hours, which we do. While there it became pretty obvious within mere moments that these two were – being as charitable as I possibly can – not the brightest bulbs in the shed. Now, I was still a teen, with all of the hormones that this entails, but they were so bubbly shockingly dumb I swear I could see string trailing from the backs of their necks. Some guys were just fine with that if all they want is a romp in the sack – perhaps I should have been, too – but Great Og, just hearing them speak was to the libido what ipecac was to the stomach. I said little for fear that I could become dumber by osmosis and we went our separate ways an hour or so later.
That weekend my buddy was DJing a dance held at the main church in downtown Orillia, and I went along for the ride. As I as mingling about the dance floor my attention is called from behind me.
“Hi!” said Bubblehead #1 with Bubblehead #2 in tow. “Remember us?”
If I’m being completely honest, my buddy and I could have gotten some that night. It would have been as easy as … well, them. But Teh Dumb. Oh Lord, Teh Dumb. It had its own event horizon. My brain assumed control of the situation – a remarkable feat given the persuasive power of my teenage loins.
“Yes,” I said, a wry grin on my lips. “Yes, I do. You, uh … left quite an impression.”
She blushed with delight. “Why thank you!” she squealed.
The set-up was too perfect. I just couldn’t in good conscience pass up the opportunity. Sorry, my helmeted friend. This one’s for your own good.
In my driest voice and wryest twist of the lips, I said, “I didn’t say it was good.”
The blush deepened. With embarrassment, this time. She groaned. Bubblehead #2 found some amusement in it though, exlaiming, “Oh, buuuuurn!” as they scurried away. If she had a tail, she’d have tripped over it.
