-The Body Could be a String Section-

Mike got his chance. Sort of.

Mandy consented to a movie, and it's enough to put a spring into his habitually downtrodden gait. Ever since, he's begun to solicit advice at the same rate that he rejects it.

It happened after I'd pulled an all-nighter, and attended the second of two 3-hour seminars. I should have gone home immediately and slept, it's not like I have health insurance. But Mike insisted, said it was his birthday -- and I'm too accommodating. And I'm the one with the car. Which is central to this tale, since it was on this jaunt he identified the object of his affection, the aforementioned Mandy, who was waiting for a late bus.

Let me make it clear that I was not in control, even though my hands had the wheel. Still, I'm willing to take the girl back to her home, to help my friend "court" someone he's interested in. So when he hops out at her place and holds a whispered conversation, I turn a loop and wait out of earshot. It takes a surprisingly long time, but when he comes back he's scrabbling for a piece of paper and taking a phone number.

When we leave, I'm shocked to find he isn't giddy with excitement. I think I would be turning cartwheels no matter how tired I was at the moment. The words coming out of his mouth are about dating strategies, I think. What to do next. When to invite her over. How to deal with his house's limitations.

His driver is tired, and does not want to be driving. I think of this exciting new beginning for Mike and I remember how terrible my own prospects are.

I am too accommodating.

When I return, my roommate is giddy over a new man.
It's too much. The only two people I speak more than perfunctory small talk with today, and they've both made love connections.

I nod patiently at my roommate's monologue for awhile, trying to be happy for her. She's the recipient of my last forced smile of the day, and I go to bed.
Twang
But not before I painfully blow a capillary in my right eye.

-Steel City Loafs-

Where to begin?

Last night I cooked chicken I'd breaded with crushed cashews and lightly sweetened with honey. I mention this because here on campus approximately 28 hours later I've suddenly realized that two pieces of chicken are still sitting in the oven, which I thankfully remembered to turn off last night. Come to think of it, I also neglected to remove the bread, one-half of a steel city round. So now I have two pieces of rubber, and one jawbreaker in the shape of a half-moon.

Anyway, the meal was well received, and I'm existing at that euphoric time after a nasty work crunch, and before the next. I'm feeling good in spite of some recent personal problems, despite the A-list of characters I run into more or less constantly in this town.

-->Critter told me on the day we broke up that I come off as condescending. Do you think the last statement is an example of that? I think it is, but I also believe that privately berating the ignorance of others is a venial sin. So venial, in fact, that we might actually benefit from the judgmental execution of this moral misdemeanor, since we can't use that time to sin like the dickens. The way we all really, really want to sin.

-->Critter's hardly one to talk, anyway. I've seen her offend unborn babies and dead kittens.

-My Car, My Curb-

Pittsburghers are usually quite good at keeping their noses out of other people's business, (since they tend not to understand it) even if they are happy to point what they perceive as failings and bray like donkeys at their own jokes.

Case in point:

Yesterday my next door neighbor called down to me from his balcony.
"Guess what? I timed you. It took you four minutes to park your car."
And today on the south side of the city I heard a kid - A CHILD - remark to his parents after my careful parking job "How long did it take him to park his car?"

I hate them, I hate them, I hate them all.

-Panhandler Peddlers-

For the first time in a long time, a panhandler got testy with me. I was walking down East Carson street in Pittsburgh, taking the long route to my car because the weather was nice and it was unusually quiet, even for Monday at one A.M.

There was no one else around when I encountered the man walking in the opposite direction with the translucent bags looped around his fists. He's African-American with salt-and-pepper hair, and he starts a spiel I'm used to hearing. "Hey, c'mere...I want to talk to you a minute."

Before I continue I should make it clear that I am a panhandler magnet, no matter where I am. It does not seem to matter what my apparel is on any given day, or what I'm carrying. Most likely this is caused by my non-threatening demeanor, and my willingness to observe people around me - perhaps a predilection for it.

So I've heard that opening salvo before. The intent is to get me to stop walking, and our panhandler thinks this will work because no request for money has been made, and the tone is (somewhat) polite. It's step one, but I never stop.

Step two is a violation of personal space, along with a bit of rambling but rehearsed dialogue not unlike the type certain telemarketers use to keep you on the phone. You're not meant to get a word in edgewise, indeed, if you do seize a pause and speak you will not be heard. The monologue you will hear is often a variation of "Listen, man, I've got a little problem, you see..." It's important to note that the tone is outwardly polite, actually more polite than the initial greeting. But conversational vandalism is already being committed, because there is the too-close I wouldn't-want-this-to-go-any-further sham. A form of intimidation, really.

After you've rejected the panhandler's entreaty, you begin to move away. How you reject the entreaty is up to you. I prefer to return eye-contact, and with a serious face and voice respond "I'm afraid I can't help you." Which brings us to step three.

Often step three is a Panhandler acknowledging your right not to give. They may not like it, and what the panhandler thinks or says out of earshot is immaterial. What matters is that a positive panhandler reacts the same way a cheery telemarketer reacts to a lost sale. "Thank you very much [for your time]." or "Have a nice day." Some adopt a religious response: "God bless you."

I hear these three responses most often, especially when there are other people around. This time we were alone, and something else happened. "Hey, c'mere...I want to talk to you a minute" was actually kind of nonsensical, since he wasn't stationary on the sidewalk, but moving toward me. He moved into step two as I passed him, and I was careful not to close off my body as I did so, but turned it toward his, even walking backwards for a few steps. Halfway through step two he broke off in irritation. He'd sped it up slightly so he could get the "one dollar" out. I honestly think those two words are the only ones that had any meaning to him, and the rest of his speech is a grayed out tax form.

Speaking my standard response, I continued to move. As the distance between us grew, I walked backwards again, lower arms spread as I absorbed some fresh anger. "C'mon, don't be a faggot." was the first insult, and finally the bizare "You think 'cause you're wearing a black shirt [racist remark, racist remark, racist remark, etc.]"

Don't think I'm editing the last part for content. I just don't want to be inaccurate, and I forget exactly what was said after that. It didn't help that he half-turned away as he said most of this, glancing over his shoulder occasionally, trying to punish me with a baleful gaze, or something. He was going more instinctual than usual, because this was the most gutteral thing I'd heard him say yet - a verbal howl.

A few steps more and it was over. I kept the same pace, though I was slightly more alert with my surroundings. When I turned a corner, I found myself suddenly furious - not because he'd frightened me, but because he'd ruined my image of the polite panhandler I encountered more often than not. What if they all feel the same way, I thought, but just don't air their racist rage when other potential customers around? What if telemarketers are the same way?

And what happens if all our telemarketers hit the streets to beg?