Sunday, August 08, 2004
The Reason He's Homeless
As I walk in the 15th Street Kroger, a highly aromatic older gentleman trots towards me.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am. You got a dollar? Ma’am?”
He’s clearly going to buy beer - no, seriously, you had to smell him - and, anyway, I don’t have a dollar. I go thruogh the store, decide on three bottles of wine, and start towards for the registers. As I pass through the deli, he reappears and leers at my boobs.
“Ooooh, I KNOW we ‘bout to have a good time.”
I half-yell at him. I’m so tired of this bullshit, and I seem to attract it where ever I go.
“Eh-heh! Heh! Heh!” He laughs, delightedly. I suppose I’m the only woman who’s spoken to him all day.
“Lawd, look at those titties,” he exclaims, staring at the front of my dress.
“Fuck off, jackass!” I begin to stomp away but he steps partially in front of me.
"Hey, uh, you got a dollar?"
"Fuck. Off." I enunciate clearly. I'm not giving someone this rude a single penny. Besides, the way it work is this: If you're looking at my boobs, you give ME the dollar.
I stomp to the registers, with his laugher trailing humiliatingly behind me. I show my ID to the cashier, and inform her - and the manager, who happens to be standing beside her - that a man is panhandling in the store, and that he verbally harrassed me.
“What? In here?!” The manager cries in surprise.
“Yep. He’s right there (in another line, beer in hand). Red plaid shirt, Green Bay Packers hat.”
They crane their necks to see, watch him for a minute as he checks out, shake their heads, and go back to their conversation.
Oh. Great. Thanks. ‘Preciate the support, ladies.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am. You got a dollar? Ma’am?”
He’s clearly going to buy beer - no, seriously, you had to smell him - and, anyway, I don’t have a dollar. I go thruogh the store, decide on three bottles of wine, and start towards for the registers. As I pass through the deli, he reappears and leers at my boobs.
“Ooooh, I KNOW we ‘bout to have a good time.”
I half-yell at him. I’m so tired of this bullshit, and I seem to attract it where ever I go.
“Eh-heh! Heh! Heh!” He laughs, delightedly. I suppose I’m the only woman who’s spoken to him all day.
“Lawd, look at those titties,” he exclaims, staring at the front of my dress.
“Fuck off, jackass!” I begin to stomp away but he steps partially in front of me.
"Hey, uh, you got a dollar?"
"Fuck. Off." I enunciate clearly. I'm not giving someone this rude a single penny. Besides, the way it work is this: If you're looking at my boobs, you give ME the dollar.
I stomp to the registers, with his laugher trailing humiliatingly behind me. I show my ID to the cashier, and inform her - and the manager, who happens to be standing beside her - that a man is panhandling in the store, and that he verbally harrassed me.
“What? In here?!” The manager cries in surprise.
“Yep. He’s right there (in another line, beer in hand). Red plaid shirt, Green Bay Packers hat.”
They crane their necks to see, watch him for a minute as he checks out, shake their heads, and go back to their conversation.
Oh. Great. Thanks. ‘Preciate the support, ladies.
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