I thought of some things from my past today (January 15, 2009), and I’ve had such odd little things happen to me, I figured I ought to write them down somewhere so I can draw from them when I write my memoirs. So, in no particular order, I’ll write in these random stories, and date them whenever I post one, in case anyone wants to know why I’m the way I am.
January 17, 2009, 6:48 a.m.
Early morning, I’ve been up for a couple hours, and as I was doing my work (editing), I was reminded of one of the more stupid things I’ve ever done (and there are many contenders).
When I was on leave from Johns Hopkins (before withdrawing, because it and I were not a good fit), I worked at a deli within walking distance of the school. I worked with a short woman who wore her hair long and dyed blonde, so from behind, guys would hit on her, and when she turned around, they’d be aghast because she was very aged in the face. She thought that was hilarious.
The boss made us serve rancid meat (we’d throw it away when he wasn’t looking) and the salad bar had baby roaches hatching in it. I lost a lot of weight when I worked there, because there was not a lot of joy in food. It was repellant, really, but that’s not the part of the story that’s interesting (but it IS the reason I will not eat tuna fish sandwiches outside of my home, or the home of a friend I really, really trust).
One day while we were making sandwiches, the whole place filled with smoke, so we brought in the fire department. The deli was on the first floor of a tall apartment building, so they had to check for fire (I had a Chinese restaurant on the first floor of the apartment where I lived, and we might have had marble counters in the bathroom [three people paid the rent, which wasn't really that high], but there were roaches everywhere. I suspect the deli building suffered the same affliction).
While the firefighters were searching the building, I was wandering around and I chatted with the cashier, who looked like I had offended her more than I ever had before. I was confused because we normally got along. As soon as her customer left, she said, “He just robbed me. He had a gun.”
So, I ran out after him. I wanted to see what kind of car he got into or where he went. Fortunately he got into a car. He did NOT shoot me or shoot at me. I didn’t get a license plate number, there was a getaway driver, and nobody was ever arrested. It was a lot of work to do to rob a place, but I suspect the register hadn’t been emptied in a long time, and the thieves knew that.
And these were clearly professional thieves, not amateur petty thieves. The whole smoke distraction thing proved that. It really is fortunate I’m here now, and wasn’t shot. I hope I’ve got more common sense now!
January 15, 2009, 3:03 p.m.
My daughter was telling me about a classmate who attacked his mother with a knife. She had hit him, and he said it was self-defense. He told my daughter, “The police didn’t see it that way.”
However, it reminded me of a time when I was 13, just before Christmas, when I was babysitting for the kids next door. The oldest boy was 11, the next girl was 9 or so, and the next boy was about 5. It was the first time I was ever attacked by a knife. Actually, the only time (I have been in a store that was held up—and chased the gunman out, because, as I’ve said elsewhere, I’m an idiot). The oldest boy was very upset when I tried to make him go to bed, so he pulled out a serrated knife from the drawer and lunged at me.
I was a skinny kid then, but I guess I’ve always been fairly strong (one of my friends told my ex to be good to me or I’d kick his ass—he wasn’t, but I didn’t). I overpowered him, took the knife away, yelled a lot, and sent him to bed. I never told his mother. But I never babysat for them again, I think (I hope! We moved away later that year, and his grandparents lived next door to him). I never really told anyone. I think he’s a math teacher now. Just think, YOUR kid could be his student. Good times!
And another thing I remembered was when my mother bought me this skirt for Christmas. It was brown and orange quilted fabric with a ruffle at the bottom and a belt sewn on at the back, right in the middle, so it could tie in a bow in the front. Even though I thought it was ugly (I never cared much for brown; I always thought clothes that would show if I sat in poop were a bit better). But I wore it to class, fifth grade. And two boys sat beside me, one on either side. They liked to pick on me, because I was a marvelous target for bullying. Each of them grabbed an end of the belt and pulled and pulled until I fell out of my seat.
Of course, I was the one who was punished. I got sent to the empty classroom across the hall to think about my behavior. I was one of the best-behaved kids around, too. And when my punishment time was over, I didn’t tell on them. They thought I was really cool because I never tattled.
See how early we let these patterns develop, though? We let people mistreat us, and then, when they have, we don’t do anything about it except feel bad. They were bad, we weren’t. Lousy way to go through life. I am working on not being that way anymore. Who really benefits from it? They learn that it’s okay to bully others, and we learn that it’s okay for others to mistreat us. Either way, we all lose.
