Man cannot live by bread alone but by every word which proceeds from the mouth of Katie. And by mouth, I of course mean hands. So read on, little ones, and fill yourself full on this month of October, starting from the bottom of the page.
October 17th, 2003: I imagine that we’re all aware by now that I tend to be attracted to older men. Sometimes 25, sometimes, 35, sometimes 45. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of boys my age . . . sometimes; it’s more that I haven’t met one yet who both has his own opinions and wants to listen to mine. I want to talk about music and politics and literature, you know, and I want every word to matter. I’m not looking for someone who shares all of my views and tells me how right I am about everything; I’m looking to be challenged so that I can either stand more firmly with my beliefs or realise my wrongs. And I’m looking to be taught so that I’m not just a 22 year-old college student living in a 22 year-old’s college world knowing a 22 year-old’s college things. And I’ve gotten that from older men—not always the listening part but definitely the challenging part. So I’m not terribly offended me when older men approach me for conversation—and by that, I of course means that I crave it—but . . .
I needed to wash my clothes last night if I had any hope of getting out of the uncomfortable underwear rut that I’d been in for about a week. I was in that stage where I still had plenty of clean shirts and pants but was having to dig to the back of my underwear/sock drawer to where all of the nasty, unfriendly bikinis live. Before I left my apartment, I put up an away message that read, “I'm off meeting the future father of my children at the laundromat,” and asked one of my roommates, Esther, if she thought it safe to leave my clothes unattended while they were washing. Displeased with her answer, I donned a gray sweatshirt, smeared my lipstick, and ruffled my hair as Esther scolded me, saying that I should look my best wherever I go, “just in case”.
Alas, the laundromat was occupied by only a gentleman in his 60’s and a boy far too frat-ish for me to take a second look at. I began unloading my clothes, and all was well until I remembered that my detergent was still in my apartment. Totally paranoid—many thanks to Esther—I ran the block back to my place, expecting my washers to have been stripped of their treasure upon my return. I tried to remember how many pairs of jeans would need replacing and how many thrift store finds I’d have to cry over, but everything was still resting contently five minutes later.
I finished my loading and engrossed myself in a book, completely unaware of my surroundings until the older man in the Mister Rogers cardigan walked past and asked, “What book are you reading?” I answered, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. James Joyce,” and seeing that he expected me to continue, added, “It’s . . . good.” Evidently, he took that as an invitation to sit down. And an invitation to completely rape me of my minding-my-business, nose-in-a-bookness.
So we talked for an hour and a half. It was almost torturously dull, yet I just couldn’t bring myself to escape it. And it’s not like it didn’t have the potential to be terribly interesting. But not even when he announced that he’s a writer who moved from Afghanistan to attend college could we manage to avoid uncomfortable chuckles followed by sighs followed by silence. Maybe it was that English isn’t his primary language. Or maybe it was that I couldn’t bear to look at his mustard-coloured teeth. Or maybe it was that he was SO OLD.
I even had the chance to interrupt the chit-chat at one point when my washers stopped, but I didn’t want to give him the chance to check me out as I moved my things to the dryer. More importantly, I didn’t want him ogling my underwear, even if it wasn’t actually on my body. Not that his intentions were at all inclined toward the indecent, but I wasn’t about to tempt him. And so we sat discussing—as far as I’m concerned—absolutely nothing until his clothes were dry. He asked me what I do for fun; I told him that I eat. I asked him about music; he told me that he likes Cher. He asked me what I’d like to do with my life; I told him that I hope to die young. I asked him about his job; he told me that he works in a pastry factory. And he kept telling me how soft my hair looked. No, not even how it looked but how it was “Your hair is soft,” he said. As if he was touching it with his eyes. That was the really creepy thing, the thing that kind of made me want to say, “Hold it right there, cowboy.” I mean, I love a compliment, and I’ll make like I’m humble ‘til I’m blue in the face, as they say, but the way that he gawked at the side of my head nearest him like he was going to masturbate to the thought of it later that night—well, it made me wriggle in my polyester pants.
But when he told me that he enjoyed talking to me, I told him the same, just like Mom would have wanted me to. And then when he told me that he’d like to take me to dinner, I agreed. Of course I don’t know why; don’t even bother asking. I just couldn’t seem to say no. Even when he asked for my phone number. Strike that. He asked to give me his phone number, and I actually suggested that he take mine. And I didn’t even give him a fake. I even wrote my name next to it, ensuring that he wouldn’t forget it and decide not call me out of embarrassment. Maybe I was thinking that by forcing him to call me, I was showing my non-interest. Or maybe I’m just an idiot.
Definitely an idiot, yes.
So he did call me, of course. That night. Just to make sure that I had gotten home safely, though he knew that I had exactly one block to walk. And then he called me again. On Sunday. To wish me a happy Sweetest Day. And I’m thinking that I might as well just kill myself and my family now and get it over with.