Continuing with our series, I relate an episode. In an ornery mood made worse by my need to take public transit and the usual company that entails, two girls — one cute, the other chubby — giggled while repeatedly glancing in my direction.
I was stretched lengthwise, tiredly in my seat, appraising the two gossips through bored half-lids. The chubby one suddenly leaned forward and pointed at my feet.
“Nice clown socks.”
On any other day I would have gamely smiled at this distaff insouciance, and prepared an amiable springboard for a few minutes of distracting banter about the sexual allure of clowns. But that day I was a foul-tempered beast with a thousand yard serial killer stare.
“Thanks. Nice clown face.”
The chubster fell backwards in her seat, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Her cute friend slowly grinned and glistened in the eyes, a telltale sign she glistened elsewhere. I slipped the shiv in further.
“I mean, if we’re gonna share opinions about total strangers.”
It was a thin crowd, so the sound barrier of our repartee was largely confined to our immediate meatspace; nevertheless, an older woman and a younger man overheard, and both chuckled.
I wasn’t sure, but I could have sworn the cute friend inched away from her chubby compatriot, just a little, but just enough to reveal the repulsion of chubby’s defeat and the pull of my jerkboyishness.