He’s always been super friendly. My front door is right at the top of the stairwell, so I often see him walk by through my ‘ice cube glass’ windows near my desk.  When I moved in, he complimented me on the happiness my yellow hibiscus brought him when it bloomed.  And I thought how nice it was that someone even noticed besides me.  He looked like a nice old man, what I envision a “grandpa” to be.

Cut to a week or so later, when I’m tempted into downloading a Sex Offender Locator app for my iPhone. You can see where this is going.  Grandpa indeed.

Not only are there a handful of the usual within a 5 mile radius, there’s one right on the floor of my building. A couple clicks later and I’m looking at the nice man who likes my flowers.

I made sure to read the offenses because I know there are issues with some of the placements of people on those lists — some 18-year-old’s girlfriend was 17 and she had a vindictive dad or… whatever.  I’m familiar with that set-up, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t that. Not only was he old, the offenses were all… icky. It made me sad to think that this seemingly normal man is a pedophile. Or was a pedophile –  have no idea of that sort of thing gets cured, but his mug shot wasn’t from 40 years ago, that’s for sure.

So, I decided that since I didn’t know the whole story (not that one could really defend that kind of behavior, but I don’t know the particulars and don’t want to), I would pretend I just didn’t know this tidbit and continue to be pleasant.  I’d avoided him through some stroke of luck and only saw him once or twice in the last few months since I found out.  Except…

Recently, it seems like I’ve run into him a lot.  Since the new year, I’ve been crazy busy with work and not left the house much. I’m a hermit lately and one day a couple weeks ago I was getting into my car for the first time in a while and the Friendly Pedophile was just getting out of his.  “Oh there you are!  I’m so glad to see you — you know, I almost stopped by your place the other day to see if you were alright.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Oh? Why did you think I wasn’t alright?”

He smiled that big grandpa smile and said, “Well, your car isn’t always here. I usually see your car come and go a lot more and I noticed your car hadn’t moved in several days. I thought you might be ill. I almost came by to check on you, but I thought that might be presumptuous.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. If I didn’t know what I knew, I would still think it a bit odd though kind, but knowing “grandpa has a magic lap”, even though I’m not his type chronologically, made me a little weirded out.  I smiled and said, “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m well, though, thanks! I just work from home.”  DOH!  I mentally smacked myself in the face for divulging that bit of information. What a maroon.

About a week later, I was sitting at my desk with my headphones on, singing at the top of my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shape walking past my ice cube windows, which I generally ignore, but the shape paused, backed up and stood there for a sec, then waved at me.  It was the Friendly Pedophile and he’d caught me singing Taylor Swift.

A few days ago, I was down at my car, digging through the mail I keep throwing in the backseat, looking for a missing 1099.  When I got in my car, I noted that FP’s car was in his space, but he was not around.  Yet suddenly, silently, he sidled up to me with his grandpa smile, holding an armful of cheap dishtowels from Costco.  “You better clean out that red car there, missy!” he jovially chided.

A little startled, I turned and laughed politely… like you do.  It was like he saw me go to my car… or maybe it was a coincidence.  But he proceeded to tell me how he got all those towels for only $10 at Costco, that they’re thick and what a great deal!  I told him I’d check them out the next time I was at Costco and let the conversation trail off with “have a good day” as I continued to look for my paperwork.

Normally, I’d think he’s just a nice old man who doesn’t get a chance to talk to very many people. I never see him with anyone else. And it makes me a little sad for him, as a fellow person. But then I’m reminded of his mug shot and how gross and abhorrent those things are, that I figure he’s made his proverbial bed.  I can only assume he thinks I don’t know and I probably won’t ever let on that I do.

So, for now I’ll just keep my eyes peeled for him and continue being polite. He’s a human being, after all.  Though I do feel like I’m observed more now than I’d like or realized.

Oh! There he goes… past my window.   This time, no wave, but then, I’m not tempting him with the siren call of a teenage country singer.

When I moved in, I was given one covered parking space on the end, very close to my stairs. Score! To my right is parked a white Miata, circa 1992 or so. It’s in 1992 condition… not bad, but certainly not cherry.

The day after I moved in, while I was unloading things from my (2009) Matrix, a man in a pith helmet with the mullet flaps on the back sidles up to me with this hands clasped behind his back, like he was ice skating in a Rockwell painting.

“So you just moved in, huh?” he says.

“Yes, just yesterday,” I replied.

And then, with a weird knowing grin and the tone of someone hosting a children’s storytime, he said, “Ok, well, don’t you go dinging my car now.”  (wink) “I keep a close eye on my baby,” gesturing to the Miata.

I laughed politely and ribbed him a bit back, assuming he was just trying to be cute. “It’s a deal. Wouldn’t want to mar such a classic!”  Then I wished him a good day and off I went up the stairs.

A few weeks later, as I was pulling into my spot, the man was at this car and we did the neighborly “wave, smile n’ nod”.  He picked up his stuff and headed back to his side of the building, but not before he leaned down as I sat in my driver’s seat and wagged his finger at me through the passenger window.

“Ah- ah- ah!” he chided and motioned toward his car.  He was smiling, but still… mention it once, it’s cute… a second time, it’s a bit odd.  I smiled, then quickly acted busy until he left before I got out of the car.

Several months went by and on occasion, I would see Mr. No-No (as I started calling him after the finger-wag) walking to or from his car and he’d harp on the same joke.  After a while, I started becoming a bit incensed.

Before Christmas, I was out at my car, unloading the groceries and Mr. No-No strolled up and said, “Watch the paint job there, little lady!” with a joking tone.  But you know, I don’t know this guy. I know nothing of him other than his penchant for safari attire and lame sense of humor.  I was over his ‘ding’ obsession, so I turned to him, arms loaded with groceries:

“What exactly is it that you think I’m going to do to your car, sir?  I’ve lived here for months now and we have a good three feet between our parked cars. In case you haven’t noticed, I drive a brand new car.  So why, on this green earth, would I be negligent about my own paint job let alone yours?”

He kind of blinked at me, clearly not expecting me to say more that I usually had. “Well, I… uh…”

“I figure you must have had a poor parking neighbor in the past, but once — it was funny, twice — it was noted, but the tenth — it’s insulting. I appreciate your concern, but please… do not wag your finger at me again.”  I smiled to take the edge off, but he looked positively vexed.

I think he’s one of those nice guys that’s a little overbearing, like someone’s crazy Uncle Ned or whatever, that people indulge way longer than they should and so he doesn’t realize he’s a pain in the ass.  Someone needed to tell the man!

I’ve not seen him much since then… just in passing and both of us are clearly avoiding each other, which is just fine by me. I do wave and smile when I see him, but we don’t really exchange words anymore.

There’s also another parking lot issue I need to address with management today: there’s some motorcycle guy (parked on the other side of Mr. No-No) who leaves at 4:30am for work (I assume) and when he goes, he revs the engine SO loud that it sets off someone’s car alarm.  This alone rips me of out of a dead sleep (and I’m close to the front of the building — I can only imagine what the bedrooms facing the parking lot must hear) but the car alarm sounds so similar to mine, I’m forced to get up and go check it out. I have to get out of bed, go to the door, open it, shove my hand out, push the button on my keys. If that doesn’t work, I have to get dressed, go outside in the cold in my robe and physically go look to make sure it’s not my car and test the locks.  By then, I’m awake.

Then it takes another 30-60+ minutes for me to fall back to sleep, so I may as well just stay up.  This happens at least 2 times a week, sometimes more.  Vroom, Vroom, VRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM, HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK…. and on and on and on.  I am so over it.

However, I do take solace that Mr. No-No probably has his face pressed against his bedroom window whenever this happens, making sure no one is touching his precious Miata.

She’s… unusual, I guess, is the best way to say it. Very friendly, but definitely an odd duck.  She seems somewhat goofy when I talk to her, like I make her nervous. She seems to try really hard to be funny or clever and she often is a bit ‘familiar’ with me, which is why I always wonder if maybe I know her from somewhere.

For example, the first time I ordered from her went a little something like this…

Her: May I help you?

Me: Yes, I need a quad Venti extra hot soy cinnamon dolce latte, light whip, no foam, please.

Her: Do you need it or do you want it?

Me: *blink blink* I’m sorry, what? Oh… (insert courtesy laugh here) Sorry, I would like…

I laughed it off and dismissed it as an employee building rapport with their customer. Fine, fine. But then she did it two more times when I came in.  I finally started skipping the pretense altogether and just saying the drink order so I don’t have to do that dance again.

She makes me a little nervous, to be honest, because of these weird exchanges, so I just smile and laugh and try to be friendly.  She asked me point blank once, “Why are you laughing?”, while laughing herself then her eyes would look all around like a googly-eyed bobble head with a big grin.  Now she’s taken to calling me “Giggles”. Giggles. And the other baristas have started writing it on my cup.

It’s gotten to the point now that I groan a bit inside when walk in and see her at the register. It makes me feel bad because I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice girl and she’s just trying to be friendly, but it makes me… uncomfortable, I guess.  It doesn’t feel flirtatious, it feels insecure, like maybe she’s shy and overcompensating. You know in movies where the nerd talks to the cool kid and says completely dorky things that sound cool in their head, but come out like they ate paint chips as a kid?  That’s usually me. I was always the nerd (at least in my own head), but this time, it’s like I’m the cheerleader or the football jock or whatever and she’s about to ask me to homecoming.

I hope she doesn’t read this blog, though it’s entirely possible.  I ran into a girl I’d only seen on Flickr at Bath & Body Works once.  And a girl at the grocery store asked me if I was Tenth Muse a few years back. So, its totally possible and I really wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

It’s so odd. I’d be flattered if it didn’t make me feel like she might boil my bunny.

“Excuse me”, he said, “Have you found Jesus?”

I said, smiling, “I wasn’t aware he was missing. Did you check with customer service?”

He kind of furrowed his brow for a sec, then his face burst into this huge grin and he said, “You know, that’s the best ‘no’ I’ve heard all day. Hey, do you know what time the Eagles game starts?” He didn’t miss a beat.

“I’m not a sports fan, really” I said, as I started to inch down the aisle in that “yeah, great, it’s been real, best of luck to you” kind of way.

And he replies, “That’s what Sundays are made for!” and walked off.

I never did figure out why he had the newspaper open in front of him. I’m guessing it was the sports section, I just didn’t want to look.

The line at this Rite Aid is always slow and for some reason, people always form one big line instead of lining up at each register (there are eight registers), then the next checker that is available takes the next customer.  Well, last night, there was an Asian dude in front of us holding two bottles of wine, a crotchety guy in a yellow shirt holding a box of Tucks or something, this Isaac Hayes (R.I.P.)-type guy (who we saw tip his hat at someone earlier — I love that), and then 3 registers with customers already being helped.

One cashier finished and called out, “I’ll take the next person!” and Crotchety Yellow Shirt and his hemorrhoid pads tried to dash out behind Isaac Hayes Guy, but Isaac Hayes Guy was no fool and he cut Crotchety off, taking his rightful place at the counter.  Crotchety grumbled and griped, but shuffled back into line, ahead of the Asian Wine Drinker.  While this was going on, a strapping middle-aged, tank-top wearing homosexual (not that his sexuality is relevant, but it paints a picture and I happened to be in the gayborhood) with a cart full of ammonia bottles and paper towels pulls up in line behind us.

Asian Wine Drinker keeps looking around the store, turning around and looking past us, past Ammonia Mo, all over the place. But before I could ponder what he was looking for, Isaac Hayes Guy was finishing his transaction.

This is where I kind of lost my cool.

One of my biggest pet peeves in this world is people who “cut”.  I hate when I’m stuck behind someone in traffic with my signal blinking, desperate to find an opening in the next lane so I can dash out and pass the slowpoke in front of me.  That’s bad enough, but what really chafes is the jerk immediately behind you that takes your window of opportunity, leaving you in the dust.  The same principle applies to queuing at the store.

As soon as the cashier called the next person, Ammonia Mo without any regard for common decency, maneuvered his cart out of the line and darted over to the open cashier while the rest of us stood there with untreated butt issues, unopened wine, and melting ice cream.

My mouth fell open. I loudly said to mikey and Asian Wine Guy, “Oh, I’m sorry!  Were you first?  I didn’t notice you…” I continued to bitch loud enough for the guy to hear me.  But he didn’t care. That’s the part that just blows me away.  Yes, it’s rude to cut in line, but at least act like you feel bad about it.  At least Crotchety Yellow Shirt grudgingly went back into line.  I mean, you don’t even care that people in line think you’re a complete and utter douchebag?  He just kept loading his bottles of ammonia up on the counter, looking stoically straight ahead.  He knew he was a jerk, but he. didn’t. care.  I realize that I, like many humans, care too much what people think on occasion, but this is ridiculous.  This is an affront on common courtesy, on societal decency… and frankly, it’s just plain dick.

Once a few years ago, I scolded at a guy in a home improvement store because we’d all been waiting an aeon in a line and a guy walked up to the line just as a new register was being opened.  And then there was the time I shamed Diaper Debbie in front a whole Sprint store.  I am beyond over this kind of rudeness and I’m not afraid to call someone out on their assholery.

I was about to do just that (much to mike’s chagrin, I’m sure), but before I could, Ammonia Mo started loading his stuff back in his cart.  I thought that for once the establishment was going to act on behalf of it’s customers and tell the guy to wait his turn, but no… he’d forgotten his wallet.  Just desserts, I guess.

My parents, even in the short time I had with them, instilled me with manners, respect for others, understanding that the whole world doesn’t revolve around me (despite what I thought when I was 15) and the knowledge that there are just some things that you don’t do.  It’s just a given.  I can’t believe I saw this kind of rudeness twice in one night, in one line within a matter of minutes!  What the hell is wrong with people?

So, I went around her, but said good morning anyway. Eau du Hobo stood up as I reached for the door, staring me in the eye while rummaging in a bucket.  I got a little worried for a split second, but then he produced a half-eaten roll of Mentos that looked like it had been run over by a car a few times.

“Look at you!  You are a Golden Goddess of Venutia!” as he waved the Mentos around.  “You are a vision, a Venutia vision!  Look at her, NAY-deen!  She’s a Venutian and I’m just a big ugly alien!  Aren’t I, NAY-deen? From Maaaaarrrrrrrrs!”

Insert big stinky hobo grin here.  Then he offered me a Mentos.

I smiled… I couldn’t help it!  I declined, of course, but I smiled. I mean, come on!  An employee came outside on the tail end of that exchange to tell Smelly and Nadine to move it along because their cart was blocking the doorway and as I followed her back inside to get in line, she turned around and said, “Nothing like an ego boost first thing in the morning, huh?” with a wink.

By the time I got back outside, Stinkpot and Nadine were gone.  My coffee this morning was awful — they must have poured me the dregs of the pot, but the trip was worth it for the hobos alone. I just wish I’d given them my $2.25.

Let me give you a basic schematic of our building.  If you’re looking at it from the front, I’m on the bottom right, GFI’s on top of me, Slick is to her left and downstairs from him, Nurse New York.  So, we share walls, specifically that one main wall and ceiling/floor where all of our apartments connect.  On our side of the wall, GFI and I have our bathrooms. On the other side?  Slick and NNY have their respective bedrooms.  You can see where this is going.  Oh yeah.

Now, we never hear a peep from NNY. Once in a while I’ll hear her on the phone in her room, but usually she’s off being busy and nursey. However, Slick and his new girlfriend get downright National Geographic up in here!  National. Geographic.  It’s insane.  GFI and I have dubbed her Project X because when she and Slick go at it, it sounds like caged chimps.  Forty caged chimps.

One night on the terrace, GFI tells me that she had to brush her teeth in the kitchen because the thought that a mere 2-foot wall and a medicine cabinet was all that separated her from Slick’s grunting body was just too much to bear.  Then, the next night, I could hear them going at it from the living room.  When I went into the bathroom, it was like they were humping at the Hollywood Bowl it was so loud. 

[insert chimp screams here]

I think last week, mikey came by and he came out of the bathroom saying, “Dude. You can hear your neighbor and his girlfriend going at it.” Oh yes, I’m aware.  They seem to have no concept of time, which is fine. It’s monkeys in the morning, monkeys in the night, monkeys in the afternoon.  (And yes, I know chimps aren’t monkeys.) Hey, I’m all for sex at any time of day. Spontaneity is fabulous… don’t get me wrong, but I try to keep in mind that perhaps the entire neighborhood doesn’t want to hear the result of “my O face”, as it were. And from what I understand, I also don’t sound like a B-grade Matthew Broderick movie.

It really doesn’t bother me all that much… I think it’s pretty funny, actually. Especially now that we have a good name for her. It makes it all that much more entertaining, but I know it’s bugging GFI. Their monkey love woke her from a dead sleep the other night… that’s no good.  So I think next time we’re all out on the terrace, I’m going to warmly rib him about this new girlfriend and suggest that he move his bed to the opposite wall.  Hint, hint. Nudge. Nudge.

Now, props to Slick. He’s either really good (which is just not something I wish to consider) or she’s been watching too much porn and needs to refine her faking technique, but either way, let a girl wash her face in peace, would ya?  Sheesh!

About half a martini later (I know, I don’t know what was up with that), I left to go to Target but when I came back, there was some guy up on the terrace with GFI and Slick. It was dark and I couldn’t see who he was, but GFI shouted down to me, “This is Chester!  You’ve got to come up and meet Chester!” I wasn’t really in the mood, it was cold, but she sounded like she really wanted me up there and I didn’t like her being up there in the dark with two guys, one a total stranger.

So I got up and there’s Chester.  He’s an older guy, like in his 60’s with white thinning hair, a golf shirt, jeans and white tennis shoes.  He looks slightly grizzled, like he’s spent time in a whiskey bottle and smelled a bit like it, too.  He was swigging a beer and moments after introducing ourselves, he tells me he’s had half a bottle of tequila before he came upstairs to meet the neighbors.  Charming.

Anyway, this guy is kind of creepy.  He’s lived in our building for 3 years on the opposite side and is a chauffeur. He’s got a town car and a Corvette he parks in the back. We’d never met him or even seen him before Friday night.  Something about the way he looked at me made me really uncomfortable, same with GFI.  He has this wide thin smile (slightly open-mouthed but doesn’t show teeth) and kinda beady eyes that make him look like Robin Williams and Jonathan Winter had a lovechild.  He was nice, so I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I’m usually a pretty good judge of character.  I usually know how to call it and this guy… he just didn’t sit well with me.  But again, I didn’t want to make snap judgments about a half-drunk stranger in the dark.

(Why do I feel like I’ve said that before?)

GFI mentions that she was having trouble in the back lot with some guy coming to rummage through our garbage dumpster at 5am, when she leaves for work and without missing a beat, Chester says, “Yes, I’ve seen you leaving.” A little creepy on it’s own, but not that weird, but when I said, “I’ve lived here since April.” he looks me straight in the eye and says in that same weird voice, “Yes, I know.” Then as I tried to excuse myself for the evening, I said, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Chester.  Thanks for stopping by.  I’m home most of the time…” but was interrupted with the creepy, “Yes, I know.” again.  Why??  WHY do you “know”?  I’ve never seen you before in my life!  I went downstairs, but they continued to hang out.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this guy was creepy and now the idea that we’ve been watched the whole time we’ve lived here totally gave me the willies.  Chester’s bedroom window looks out over the parking lot, so every time we’ve gotten in the car, done the laundry, emptied the garbage… he could have been watching from his bedroom window. Which, by the way, has always got the blinds closed except for one cracked open just a little.

The next day, I talk to GFI and we concur that Chester is freaky.  I guess after I left on Friday, the party moved down to Slick’s and there was some awkward dancing that GFI had a hard time politely extracting herself from.  (Ladies, you know what I mean?  You don’t want to be rude, but you don’t want to feel their potential creepy wood, either.) The next day, he leaves his card on her car: “Please call”, it says. (Why did he know it was her car? He’s been watching.) Then, I hear this tapping on my wall behind my couch… the wall that on the opposite side runs a pathway alongside the building to the parking lot.  Then I heard my door rattle, but I didn’t answer (my doorbell is broken). Moments later, GFI sends me a text, “Are you at my door?” But lo, it was CHESTER. He’d left the card on her car, then tapped the wall along my apartment to see if I wanted to come out and play.  Then he went to GFI’s, then Slick’s, then back to GFI’s, back to mine and he left.

First of all, you don’t “pop in”.  We hate the Pop-In, she and I both. So that was annoying in itself, but it’s been a mere 10 hours since we saw you, sir.  You’re ready to come back for more already?

GFI and I sat outside on the terrace a little while later on Saturday and sure enough, within 10 minutes, Chester was lumbering up the hill to us with that creepy love child smile, calling out what a good time he had with us.  We didn’t move but to say hello. He stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting for us to invite him up, but we never did, so eventually he got the hint and wandered away.

We both seriously thought that this would be the last of Chester, but I shit you not, the next day GFI went to do her laundry and he cornered her.  She went down early Sunday morning, put the wash in, timed it and came back.  She could see someone had been in the laundry room after her, but wasn’t too worried about it.  She put her wash in the dryer, timed it and came back to find the washers running, so clearly someone had been there. This time, she said as she was loading the laundry in her basket, the hair on the back of her neck stood up and when she turned around, Chester was standing in the doorway.

He had both hands on the door jam so she couldn’t get past.  After chatting her up for a few minutes (“I was so drunk the other night… blah blah blah”), she finally managed to wiggle past him out of the laundry room and then… he asked her out.

HE ASKED HER OUT.  The man is like, SIXTY!  At least!  GFI is 33? (I forget… 35? Somethin’. I can never remember if she’s older or younger than me. I’m sure she’ll clarify.) Anyway, I’m no ageist, I’m not saying people can’t find love in a May/December relationship, but come on. He was clearly timing her. She just met this guy 2 days ago, he’s her neighbor, he seems perpetually intoxicated, and he’d alluded (on Friday night) that he had a master key the building because he does “some maintenance” (which this is the first we’ve EVER heard of him), so she was pretty freaked out. I was pretty freaked out!

So, after rebuffing him, I think he got the picture.  Except our landlord decided in a moment of infinite stupidity to copy Chester on an email that he sent to GFI… giving him not only her email, but her last name. Oh, and he kindly passed on GFI’s phone number… and Chester called it.

Talk about inappropriate!  Ross told me to buy a baseball bat, but I’m not too worried about me.  He clearly likes GFI, but I think he got the picture when she declined his date, she didn’t take or return his call and we didn’t invite him up — we’ve not seen him for a while. 

But now, whenever I empty the trash, I make sure I’m wearing a bra and I give his window the finger.  *shudder*

I know the guy upstairs next to GFI in Furley’s old apartment.  We call him Slick. Then there’s The Lawyer next to him. Downstairs from him is Granola Guy and between the two of us lives a really cool nurse. I have no name for her other than her first name, so for the purposes of this blog, we’ll just call her Nurse New York.  In the building next to us is Crazy Pajama Bird Man.  He’s got parrots, a poor relationship with his baby mama and can often be found outside in too-big socks and ratty pajama bottoms using a cherry-picker to trim the trees.  And finally, also in the building next door, we have The Patio Lesbians.  Man, those women sure love their patio.

I figured I’d gotten to know enough of the characters for a while, but that was before the man next door to The English Couple got a Harley for Christmas.

Let me just say that I have no real problem with motorcycles in general.  I also have no problem with occasional disturbances of the peace — these things happen.  But for the love of god, if you’re going to go somewhere, then freaking go.

A few days after Christmas, I heard a motorcycle start up across the street.  It revved a few times, like one does when warming up a vehicle and then I full anticipated that I would hear it speed down the block.  But, instead, it puttered and puttered and idled and puttered and idled and sputtered and OMG WOULD YOU SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!!?!?  After a bit, I was able to tune it out and keep doing what I was doing and almost forgot about it.

I noticed later on that I was getting a headache.  I decided to lie down on the couch and watch TV for a bit, but I couldn’t hear the TV without cranking it up, which wasn’t helpful.  Hours later, this man was still idling his motorcycle in the driveway. Now, I don’t do well with constant low-grade hums or rings or tones, they drive me insane and give me headaches. Some people can successfully tune them out, but I often get a physical reaction.  This wasn’t quite “low-grade”, but that incessant sputtering and revving was driving me absolutely mad and not helping my headache.

I decided I’d had enough.  For chrissake, it was a beautiful, quiet peaceful Thursday morning during a holiday week.  This isn’t a weekday when people are at work (though, I’d have words for him then, too).  I ran out to the curb in my tropical pajama pants, sweatshirt and slippers and politely called across the street, “Excuse me!  Sir?  Do you think you could turn that off for a sec?”

Of course, all I got was “WHAT?” My point exactly, jerk. So I made a few gestures and eventually, he walked over to the edge of his curb so that we’re hollering across the street to each other over the din of his bike. I called out again, “Sir, are you planning on going anywhere?”

Now, I should tell you — this was no Hell’s Angel or thug (though I’ve know a couple really sweet Hell’s Angels). I live in a nice area (I lucked out), so this guy was more like someone’s golf buddy than a biker dude.  He had on pressed jeans, super white sneakers, a polo shirt and a visor… like he was going to play tennis followed by a Manhattan at the country club. His “hog”, while a Harley, was one of those big white luxury deals with the wide-load storage boxes on the sides, room for 4 and lots of bling. It was like Harley Davidson, The Eddie Bauer Edition.  If bikes were Business Class, that was this man’s motorcycle.

“Um, I bike,” calls the man, giving me that, “Whatever, lady” look.  Great, you “bike”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t people who “bike” say “I ride”?  You bike?  Good for you, dude. Get a Schwinn.

As I don’t want angry neighbors, I say really sweetly, “I can see that, but are you going anywhere anytime soon?  Your bike has been idling for several hours and while I understand that you need to run it sometimes, it’s starting to become a little bothersome. If you’re not going anywhere imminently, would you please shut it off while it’s sitting in the driveway?”

He looked at me, rolled his eyes, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand… like a “shoo”, turned his back and walked back to his bike.  Exasperated, I stomped back in the house, and he proceeded to leave it running for another seven minutes.

I thought maybe he was doing some kind of maintenance or repair work on the bike, but when he shooed me, that’s when I noticed that this tool had a chamois in his hand.  A chamois!  No toolbox, no grease under his nails, no wrenches… a chamois.  This wanker was sitting in his driveway, revving his engine and buffing his Harley.  For hours.

Sir, no amount of revving or buffing will make your penis bigger. SHUT IT OFF. 

Eventually, it was shut off. He put the cover back on it and it still sits in his driveway. I thought I heard him leaving the other day, but it was just Slick and his Ducati taking off down the street.  At least he has the decency to not rev his penis in the front yard.  Well… I hope, anyway.

About 7 minutes till opening, I decided to get out and stretch my legs while other shoppers started to congregate around the front doors.I sauntered up after them and milled around the front door with a brood of moms I would not want to mess with. Those women were there for a Wii and by god, they were going to get one. They all had their running shoes and game faces on.  I was actually a little concerned. I felt the need to let them know I had no interest in Wii and wish them luck lest they think me opposition and beat me down on my way to the cookie sheets.

There was another man standing near me who looked kind of like a cross between a weathered fisherman and Burgess Meredith in Rocky.  Standing about 5 feet away and without us making any eye contact whatsoever, he suddenly turns to me and says, “I like your coat. I used to have a coat just like that.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled.  Wrong answer.

I was wearing my men’s black pea coat I bought for my trip to England, my “Rock Paper Scissors Champion” t-shirt that has the big fist on it (fists are this week’s theme, I guess), jeans and Chucks. Nothing too spectacular.  But after saying thank you, Burgess Fisherman continued on.

“I wore a Navy pea coat.  When you sweat, you’ll get a rash,” gesturing under his arms and along his torso and crotch.  “My doctor recommended that I use diaper cream.”

I wanted to say that if he was in the Navy, that rash was probably not from his coat, but I held my tongue and just said something along the lines of, “Oh? Well, I’ll bear that in mind, thanks.”

He quieted for a moment and the manager came out to tell the Mom-erators that there were was no shipment of Wiis and they would have to come back later. That didn’t sit well with them, so while they feasted on the manager’s soul, Burgess Fisherman took the opportunity to suddenly change tack and tell me that he had a stamp at home with Arctic wolves on it and a giant submarine underneath.  He proceeded to go into great detail about the wolves and how their expressions looked and how the submarine was sleek and how it made him feel powerful to have this stamp, which using his hands he indicated was only about 1×2 and only worth 10 cents.  I’m not sure what made him bring that up, but then he fell silent.

After the moms had their fill, the manager started letting employees into the store, but not customers, so I was stuck with my new friend a few moments longer.  After more moments of silence, he again burst out with a new topic, this time, “OH! The ceilings in Madrid, Spain are just glorious. And Italy and all the WORLD. Have you been to Spain?”

“No, I haven’t, but I intend to someday,” I said.

“Oh, it’s the most beautiful place on earth and the ceilings… the ceilings… the ceilings…” and he gestured in the air as though he were seeing them for the first time, his face contorting in awe. Despite saying odd things, he’d been acting relatively normal until this point, so I wondered if he was going to start smelling toast and have a stroke the way his eyes glazed over while he imagined Spain. But just as quickly as Madrid arrived into our conversation, it left.

“I like your fist, “ he said, referring to my t-shirt. “What’s your M.O.? I’ve partnered with law enforcement and that shirt says you know something. Tell me about that fist. What power do you fight?”

“I bought this shirt here. It’s just a novelty shirt,” I said, trying to smile, but really starting to wish the half-eaten manager would open the damn door.

“I like the diaper cream here the best. It’s only $1.79. I can rub it all over…,” then he gestures all over, “and still have it last a long time. It really works on that rash. I work at a hospital and I am a hypochondriac, so when I need something, I tell the doctors that my skin rash is going to infect my heart and I’ll drop dead if they don’t see me immediately. It works every time.  Do you want me to get you some?”

Just then the doors opened and smiling at Burgess Fisherman, I took the opportunity to high-tail it through the Mom Mob and as far as away from Health & Beauty as physically possible.  Other than the Madrid moment, he sounded like a normal guy, just all of his topics were totally out of the blue. He didn’t seem threatening to me really, just probably a lonely old guy.

But I’ll pass on the diaper cream.  Thanks, though.