notforprophet

← Previous Post

I’m not sure if yesterday would have been the right day for the right people to screw with me, but it was sure the wrong day for the wrong people to mess with me. I finished some work yesterday and was feeling erotically aroused. No, the work wasn’t the reason. It may have been due to something someone said to me the previous evening or, perhaps, even due to the residual effects of that ‘extra cup’ of coffee that sent me ‘climbing up the wall’ the day before. In any case, when a man finds himself alone and yet erotically aroused, it’s time to take action. So naturally, I headed for the cemetery to run for 40 minutes in a full-blown blizzard. Nothing like a cold run to transform wanton eroticism into a focus of warrior readiness. I would have run longer, but the cemetery was closing, and seeing that Faerie Death was no where in sight, I had no rational for spending the night (or eternity) wandering about the sacred grounds. So with my warrior propensities reawakened, I set out through the gates, back into the world, and decided that a beer or two would assist in keeping me ‘loose’.

The first beer wasn’t disappointing. But I literally ran into a 'wall' when I had to use the restroom in this first locale—a 'wall' of hand towels that some guy, all alone and standing at a wash basin, was ripping up, forming into balls, and tossing onto the floor right inside of the door. My immediate instincts screamed 'psycho in the vicinity' and my instincts were right: The guy was a weirdo getting totally anal about hand towels. His mannerisms were nervous and twitching—but not abandonedly drunk. And he had apparently defined the restroom as his ‘private space’—which I had just violated. But seeing that I had stumbled upon this scene with a vital need to use the facilities, I didn’t avoid the situation but sought clarification instead by challenging him directly.

“What the hell is going on here?”, I asked.

The weirdo pretended to ignore me, but I noticed his facial expression immediately contorting into a contemptuous smirk. I sidestepped the burgeoning paper pile, walked over to the urinal and started to whiz, keeping my eye on him all the time.

“Hey man, what’s up with all of this?”, I again confronted him, “You know, what you got going on here is pretty strange.”

I was hoping he’d offer some—any— verbal reply so that I could assess better just how whacked out he just happened to be.

And reply he did: “I didn’t come here to answer 20 fucking questions.”

Hrmm…had others already asked him 18 previous questions? Was he now at a breaking point? And if so, was if flight or fight?

“That may be.” I continued, “but that mess on the floor over there has just put me into a state of high alert. You know, it’s indicative that something funny’s going on here.”

He headed for the door—flight! But as he exited he shot back, “I don’t have to explain anything to you, dickhead.” Ah, an inkling of fight.

To which I responded: “Just keep walking, dumbfuck.”

That wasn’t the end of it. He was waiting just outside the restroom, but I had a feeling he might be lurking about, spotted him immediately, and brushed past him quickly, yet in full readiness to physically respond if necessary. There was no incident just then, but I could sense he was tense: he didn’t want to let go of ‘his’ restroom and he was still perceiving me as a ‘threat’. So back at the bar with my beer, instead of just sitting down, I turned around at a distance of about 20 feet to observe his next move…

He was clearly agitated, coming undone, and staring at me. He then bellowed out: “I’m ready. You want to take me on, I’m ready.”

I laughed at him making sure he’d see my grin. I was ready, too. Though there was no need to so inform him. “You want to step out, let’s step out,” is all I said.

He backed away. I informed management about ‘the maniac’. They escorted him out and, no, he wasn’t waiting for me when I left 5 minutes later.

Scene Two. I sought out a calmer locale to have a second beer. Then I’d go home and write about the first ‘scene’. I was figuring that just enjoying another beer in a calm setting would put me back at ease and restore the proper perspective by which to digest and analyze the earlier commotion. So I walked into a ‘neighborhood type bar” ( the first, was actually, a club) and managed to enjoy the first half of a beer before Weirdo II, the Sequel sat down on a bar stool next to me.

I hadn’t even looked at him yet, or given this guy any indication whatsoever that I was cognizant of his existence, when out of nowhere he starts saying ‘intimate’ things. I was trying to ignore him, but he wouldn’t let me: the bastard propositioned me and then touched me.

I moved quickly, rising from my barstool and turning to face him as I brushed his hand away: “Hey dude, you don’t know me, I don’t share your sexual proclivity (yes, I manage to use big words even on the edge of battle), and I don’t play in your sandbox. Understand? I don’t play in your sandbox. ” I paused purposely, then added: “And you’d better not touch me again. ” Then I sat back down to finish my beer and mind my own business.

He tried to say more—to talk dirty—but I ignored it. I was triggered on one thought: Don’t touch me again.

But he did. He acted like he was leaving, but after getting up, he started to put his arm around me and tried to whisper something. BAM. Just one motion and I was back on my feet and he was flying uncontrollably across the room and banging into a table. He was visibly shocked and shaken as I screamed: “I told you not to fuck with me, asshole.” This was anything but a gay bar, so I explained to the management, that was quick to intercede, just precisely what had transpired. He, too, was escorted out the door—more for his protection than my peace of mind, I’m sure.

I sat back down. It took about 10 seconds to calm myself and put this latest ‘scene’ out of mind. And, of course, I finished the beer.

I wonder...Was there a full moon yesterday? Or were these matters of misdirected Mardi Gras energy gone bad?