I have noticed since my last break up, I have had a lot of free time on my hands. At face value, many of you will assume that to be a good thing, but unfortunately I had very few hobbies to fill this increased leisure time.
My friends had advised me to “put myself out there” and “get to know the real me“ but I suspected “out there” was not the place for me to “put myself” and “the real me” was not the kind of person I wanted to get to know.
To break this cycle, I started spending many of my days sitting in subway (the sandwich shop not the underground transport system) reading and quietly judging people as they walked past the window. Why subway you ask? Well, many subway franchises have an “unlimited refill” policy on their fizzy drinks. This essentially meant I could fuel my pursuit of knowledge with caffeine rich cola. For those interested in science, caffeine can increase alertness and short-term memory, thus aiding me in my current pursuit of knowledge. On the not so positive side too much caffeine has been found to cause nervousness, jitters, and increased frequency of urination. I weighed up the pros and cons and decided that being an intellectual who constantly shakes and always needs the toilet was a price I was willing to pay..
Recently though, I had noticed that after long periods of reading I was starting to get headaches. My keen medically-trained brain clinically reasoned that this was not a good thing! So, like any other conscientious visually challenged specy-specy-four-eyes I decided to head to the opticians and have my prescription reviewed.
For the most part the test was fairly uneventful, with the obligatory “are the letters on the board clearer with glasses A or B?” assessment. However, this arbitrary encounter was to conclude with a few parting words that would forever change my subway-‘reading-judge-athon’ experience.
Opticians: You read a lot, right??
Gosh, my stock was clearly going up, all tis reading was clearly paying off I must be giving of the air of a learned scholar. I proudly pushed my glasses from the tip of my nose to my brow. I was ready to converse on a level with this medically trained professional. He had obviously recognised something different in me that was missing in his usual half-witted customers.
Me ( A little too loudly): Well, from one academic to another, YES. How can you tell.
Maybe he was impressed with my considerable vocabulary. Or was it my fine grammar and articulation that had exposed the truth? Perhaps it was simply something only another keen intellectual could identify. He was an expert in vision after all, his powers of observation probably kept him ahead of the competition. Whatever gave it away, you can’t fake superiority it is just something to be adored and emulated.
Opticians: (somewhat embarrassed and with a slight smirk) Err, yes, well you wrote on the pre assessment form that you read a lot.
Me: Oh, erm, yes, I read . . . . I read a lot! Mainly scholarly books.
Opticians: (still with the smirk, though now with a slightly condescending tone, fucking opticians) Very good. Yes, well, try to take regular breaks every 45 minutes or so. It allows your eyes to rest and will help to prevent eye strain.
How dare he smirk at me, I was a paying customer! Just who did this quack think he Dwas? He is an optician, not a surgeon. How hard can that job be? It involved saying “glasses A or glasses B” all day long. The repetitious nature of his job made him no better than a minimum wage worker in some Indonesian sweat shop.
Being a bigger person, I thanked the so called “professional” for his time,and counsel and left. Little did I suspect that such a simple piece of advice would result in such a perilous outcome.
A couple of days later I returned to subway, I was greeted by Daryl, a sandwich making expert with a heart of gold and a brain of lint. Daryl and I had had many conversations over the last few weeks and we had transcended the worker customer boundary and I now considered him one of my closest casual acquaintances.
It was an ordinary day, I ordered my ordinary sandwich (Italian BMT, which in my opinion has an anything but ordinary taste), I sat at my ordinary seat, and began my ordinary routine of reading and judging. However, fate had decided that today was going to be anything except ordinary.
As I guzzled my 6th cup of diet cola that hour I noticed a robustly built maiden approaching the shop at an impressive velocity, for a human. If you have ever witnessed the American wrestler ‘The ultimate warrior’ charge into the ring you’ll have some idea of this ladies gait pattern. She must really want a sandwich I thought (probably one with a substantial amount of meat to feed her substantial amount of frame). I chuckled to myself, “another fine judgement” then continued reading about the mating habits of spiders (see, I told you, scholarly).
Then, abruptly and without warning I felt a powerful hand grasp my left shoulder, I turned half expecting to see He-Man or at least someone with a pneumatic robot hand but instead my gaze was met by the she-brute I had observed just moments ago. She was staring angrily at me and I am not ashamed to tell you that I felt a chill down my spine.
To say she was “heavy set” was an understatement, she was huge, picture the love child of Mr T and Serena Williams and then liberally add steroids!
Her powerful muscles rippled, probably primed to lay the smack down on what ever creature was foolish enough to get in her path (unfortunately me at the moment). Even with a full beard, I was more feminine than this woman. I hope this didn’t get physical as she looked ready to grind my bones to make her bread!
Her: “WHY HAVE YOU BEEN TAKING PICTURES OF MY SHOP???”
She bellowed, which seemed a little unnecessary considering she was stood within arms reach of me. If I had been a hip hop artist I would have described her position as being “all up in my grill”.
Me: (with a piece of salami still hanging from my mouth) Errr, what?? I, I . . .
Her: Oh . . . . . . I think you heard me?
Me: I heard you, I am not deaf, just a little confused? I think you may have the wrong guy. I don’t even know which shop is yours and I definitely don’t remember taking any pictures of your currently anonymous shop??
Her: I have a witness!!!
What the shit?!? She has a witness?! What next DNA evidence? Did she have a fingerprint or possibly a sample of my seamen to corroborate her claims? How had my day turned into an episode of CSI: Les Vegas?
Me: I am fairly certain I haven’t. Are you sure your witness is reliable?? I don’t even own a camera.
HER: well my employee says you have, and I believe her.
Me: Are you sure your employee isn’t delusional? Maybe you should test her for narcotics? Urine tests are simple yet effective.
Her scowling expression turned to rage; if this had been a cartoon, steam would have burst from her ears!
Her: My employee is also my daughter.
Me: (I thought on my feet and grasped the tenuous opportunity to build rapport)
Oh, a family business that’s nice, it’s always good to see that the conglomerates haven’t taken over everything.
There was a deafening silence filled only with her scowl and my unwavering fear. I was beginning to suspect my attempts to build bridges were less than successful.Just how had I gotten myself into this fine mess?
From her presently unknown shop, her star witness must have observed me sitting here for a good three hours and every fifteen minutes systematically looking forward; she had obviously misinterpreted my visual breaks for spying. Maybe her daughter thought I was an undercover cop or even a government agent (surely she had seen enough James Bond to recognise I was not even wearing a tuxedo though).
It was all just a big misunderstanding; if I honestly explained the situation she would believe me, everyone understands the need to avoid eye strain. We would probably share a joke about it afterwards, maybe even casual acquaintances like me and Daryl.
Me: let me be honest and explain the situation. I have just been reading that’s all. I don’t want eye strain so I take regular breaks, nothing nefarious. I haven’t been looking at your shop just trying to rest my eyes.
I looked into her eyes hopefully; I was mere seconds away from making a new friend, one that had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of hostility
Her: So now your saying my daughter is a liar.
Me: I don’t know, err maybe not a liar, she might just be erm, you know…wrong. Either way, I haven’t been watching your shop. I am glad we were able to resolve the situation, peacefully though.
My story had clearly not impressed her. With hindsight, it was always unlikely accusing her daughter of being either deceitful, cretinous or a drug abuser would help my predicament. My mind began to ponder what her business was, from the looks of it, her business was “kicking-ass”, and I feared business was good. I considered possible strategies; surely with my academic brain I could find a way to avoid my imminent destruction.
I wondered what would superman do? I began to stare at my accuser really hard for about 5 seconds, but try as I might, eye lasers would not shoot out and hit her. I was obviously going to take a different approach.
Over the course of the next twenty-five seconds I came up with a myriad of cunning plans; (1) play dead until she got bored and left, (2) distract her then run away (3) tell her that I think she is beautiful and she had besotted me. With the exception of the last one I doubted any of these cunning strategies would prove successful.
I then realised that over the course of the last twenty-five seconds I had been silently staring into space with a confused look on my face.
As anyone who has faced death can tell you, fearing for your life can have huge impacts on survival instinct; my brain suddenly hit overdrive hoping to avoid impending doom. It was time to defuse this she-male shaped bomb, and I would accomplish this task with only the tools of logic and reason.
Information is power, so first I needed to ascertain which shop was hers. I looked across the road there were three possibilities;
1)The Polish Deli
I like to think that my finger is on the pulse when it comes to culture, and her strong Nigerian accent didn’t seem give off the stereotypical Polish vibe.
2) The Games Workshop
Now this was a real possibility and if it was her shop, I would have to be cunning as she would obviously be a master tactician, maybe already three steps ahead of me. However Games workshop employees generally wore uniforms adorned with the company logo. I saw no such insignia on her exquisite African attire.
3) The African hair, clothes and food shop
I didn’t want to be presumptuous, but this also seemed a strong contender.
It was time to see if a university education really did pay off!
Me: Do you own the games workshop? (I confidently said
Her: (with an unimpressed face) are you trying to be funny.
Conan Doyle once wrote that “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
I now suspected her shop was probably the African hair, clothes and food shop
Me:But, I don’t even own a camera. I whimpered.
She stopped for a second, and pondered. She could not argue with my logic. I
Was camera-less. Surely that piece of evidence would prove my innocence. I awaited her apology. But slowly, her eyes widened. ..
Her: Whats that (she pointed at my phone)
Me: It’s a phone??
Her: What kind of phone?
Me: Its . . . its a nokia?
Her: It’s a camera phone!! Let me see it. I wanna know why you have been spying on us.
Me: I think that would violate my human rights . . …
. . . . . .. . . I really don’t want to be violated today!!
I was starting to get irritated, I was innocent an innocent man like! I had done nothing wrong, except try to avoid asthenopia. All I wanted to do was return to reading about what cunning tactics male spiders would use to avoid post-mating cannibalisation. Why was my personal edification such a crime? Plus my delicious sandwich was getting cold. Why must I be put through such injustice? I wondered if this was how the A-team felt when they were accused of a crime they did not commit?
This was Too much I Would Not Stand For IT Any More!! I WOULD RISE UP AND STRIKE DOWN MY ACUSER WITH A BULLET MADE OF nerd rage!!!
Me: I don’t mean to be rude . . . . .
Sorry to digress, but isn’t it odd how whenever someone uses the phrase “I don’t mean to be rude “ the immediate dialogue that follows is generally nothing but rude.
ME: I have never really focussed on your shop until a few moments ago. . . . .
Xena warrior princess attempted to open her mouth but I cut her off. . . .
Me: I don’t even own a camera, but even if I did, I seriously doubt that your shop front could provide any photo opportunities for me. Do you??
Oh, this was on like donkey kong, I could feel my confidence growing with every passing second, I was on a roll and I was gonna rub her face in a steaming pile of logic!! It was time to put this puppy down!!
Me: Do you think I am some sort of stalker, what possible reason would anyone stalk you for???
Shit, that comment was a bit much. In my cola fuelled flight or fight haze, adrenalin had taken over. Even as I said the words I could sense that they were not warranted. I suddenly felt a pang guilty.
Me: Erm, I am sorry that was meant . . . .I didn’t mean . . .
She still looked annoyed, I felt I should progress my apology.
Me: I am not saying that you couldn’t get a stalker, I bet you could get loads if you really wanted. . . . .
Her: You have been watching us. I know it. You know it, and I am gonna get to the bottom of it!
My olive branch was met with hostility but I made one final attempt to heal the rift . . . .
Me: Your shop is directly opposite my field of vision, I have sat here reading books for a few hours now. The chances are that at some point whilst I am sitting here I will look up.
Her: I don’t believe you!
What the shit??? I give up, I had tried being nice, I had tried being reasonable, I had tried to explain. But it wasn’t enough. I was just gonna have to be snarky
Me: What? Seriously? Do you think that my story is some sort of cover? Do u think I am a member of the weave police and this is a stakeout. What purpose would I possibly have for such clandestine espionage tactics??
She seemed unmoved by my facetious comments. We had reached a impasse, she didn’t believe me and I was tired of trying to reason with the oestrogen filled- bruiser. I feared this would turn nasty and in a fight I did not fancy my chances. She looked battle hardened, she even had war scars on her face, for godsake.
I gingerly looked across at her shop, her employees had gathered by the window and were now staring at us ready to view the pending human sacrifice. I wondered how she would vanquish me? Her mighty fists seemed to creak with tension. I envisioned her ploughing her hand into my rib cage then ripping my still beating heart out and holding it aloft. Or maybe even uppercutting my head so hard it exploded. Neither option appealed to me.
As I awaited my execution one thing was clear, I clearly played to much mortal kombat. But as fate would have it, I was not destined to fall today.
Daryl, My minimum wage hero appeared from the kitchen, he had overheard the debacle, He looked at the lady-beast then looked at me, his panic stricken friend and without hesitation or fear said.
Daryl: Look, he comes in here all the time, he just sits their and reads, I have never even seen him with a camera.
She looked sceptical but I could see the cogs slowly starting to turn in her mind (figuratively I mean, she was not a robot, well, possibly the terminator). Suddenly, inspiration hit me like a lightnening bolt hurled by Zeus delivering an intense dose of genius. I knew what I needed to say!
Me: See, your man there says he has never seen me with a camera.
Me: Look, I have said it. He has said it! Have a gander up there ( I pointed to the security camera on the ceiling).
Her: . . .
Me: If our words are not enough, there is CCTV up. (I pointed to a video camera fitted to the wall).
Me: That will confirm my story. Ask the subway manager to view the relevant footage and after that I will gladly accept an apology from both you and your daughter’s.
Her mouth moved but no words came out, she was on the back foot.
Me: Now, if your quite finished Have a good day, maam
There are certain times in life when you are given the option to take the high road, to look down on those less fortunate and forgive them for their inferiority . . . . . ..
. . . .. . This was not one of those times
.
Me: Don’t worry, we all make mistakes, but what’s important is that we take the time to learn from it though. I gave her a wry, knowing smile
BANG!!!! That was it, I had defeated her. Her mighty fists of stone had proven no match for my meagre intellect. I guess Daryl had helped a little, but the glory was mine.
She reluctantly apologised and I fought the desire to scuffle her hair and say “run along now, little lady.”.
She crossed the road and return to her shop, where I took great pleasure in watching her berate her incompetent, dishonest scheming daughter. They both looked across at me. I smiled and waved smugly.
What a victory, I was one of life’s winners; I was Muhammad Ali, I was Nelson Mandella! I was a Spartacus, words and reason were my sword and shield, subway was my coliseum.
I re-filled my cup with diet cola and with a sense of self satisfaction I returned to my book.
One spider-based fact for you; Often the male spiders avoid being eaten by their mates by offering a gift of a dead fly rolled up in webbing before love making. I shall try this next time i am with a lady i fear may eat me.
