Notes on Close Encounters of the Weird Kind
I'm extremely tolerant of different, I enjoy different and try hard not to judge it. Hell, I make a living writing about different. I'd have to go back to nursing if it ceased to exist.
It's a pretty safe bet to say I'm a little 'different'. When I was a little kid and would say or do something incredibly weird, my mom would always tell people I was 'creative'. She'd say it in a hushed whisper, like it was an affliction we didn't want the rest of the world to know about. I'm sure she thought I'd grow out of it, but I didn't, and I haven't been locked up for it (yet), so I guess it's not such a bad thing.
Consequently, it takes a lot for me to consider someone weird. I'm extremely tolerant of different, I enjoy different and try hard not to judge it. Hell, I make a living writing about different. I'd have to go back to nursing if it ceased to exist.
But there's a distinct line between different and just plain weird.
We were in a Loves somewhere in Oklahoma, doing the regular things you do at Loves, fueling, buying smokes, going to the bathroom. George and I always split up to accomplish all tasks in the shortest amount of time, he was hyper-sensitive about how long we're parked in the fuel lane. It was like a pit stop at a NASCAR race for us, everyone has a job and moves quick to avoid spending too much time doing it.
(For the unaffiliated - truck stops have parking spots and they have fuel lanes. Nothing is more abhorrent to those who know the rules of the road than a driver who parks in the fuel lane and does more than fuel. You are asking for a verbal assault at the very least, if you are seen traipsing back to the truck with your shower bag, after holding up a fuel lane for 45 minutes. Time is money on the road. If the wheels ain’t turning, you ain’t earning.)
Don’t pee on my leg…at all
(This is a re-print from the archives. I’m an equal opportunity writer so I had to follow up my ‘poop’ headline from yesterday with a pee disclaimer. You can probably see why I was nightmare for my editors when I had guardrails and roools. Remember, paid subs have access to the archives for more pontification on politics, bra sizes and pilling cats. I’m…
I zipped into the bathroom, it was empty and I had my choice of stalls. I always choose the end closest to the far wall, that way if there's a tornado while I'm on the toilet I'll have a greater chance of survival. Don't ask. Anyway, I was hurrying, and had just about gotten my pants up when someone else walked into the bathroom.
“Oh my God! I love your shoes!”
I didn't pay attention, I assumed she was talking to someone on the phone or walking in behind her. I certainly didn't respond, as I have a strict code about talking to strangers in bathroom stalls. I was also wearing Birkenstocks, and as comfortable as they are, they sure ain't pretty. As a matter of fact, the ones I own strongly resemble orthopedic shoes.
“Wow! Some people are really rude. I just said I love your shoes.”
I peeked under the door to see if there was anyone else in the bathroom. Nope. Only two sets of feet. I couldn't get a look to see if she was talking on the phone without sticking my head out far enough to be seen.
“Gah, really? You're not going to talk to me? Oh well.”
She was talking to me. She was talking to me and she was starting to get pissed that I wasn't talking back. For some reason this alarmed me and I wasn't going to come out of the stall until the weirdo who talked to shoes of strangers left the premises.
She farted around (not literally, unless it was something I couldn't hear over her talking to my shoes) at the sink forever while I remained trapped in the stall. I started getting text alerts from George asking if he needed to park, which in George code means HURRY THE EFF UP.
I had resolved to leave the stall and feign deafness to this person by making imaginary sign language signals and pointing to my ears on the way out. I was just about to unlock the door when she flounced out of the bathroom. Apparently she had finished terrorizing me and my shoes. I quickly washed my hands and ran to the truck.
George was not happy. “What the hell? You okay?”
“DRIVE! DRIVE FAST!” The last thing I wanted was for the shoe-talker to roll up and compliment me on my nice calf muscles.
“What the hell did you do?” This is a question he asks often. I can’t imagine why, but it’s a habit for him.
“I didn't do anything! There's a girl in there who wants my shoes! Get out of here!”
“Babe, I hate to tell you this, but those are some of the ugliest shoes ever. I doubt anyone wants them. I don't even know why you bought them.” He’s honest to a fault.
“Your mother gave them to me, dork. And I know they're ugly, that's why I know she's a weirdo. Now drive!”
I told him about the stranger in the bathroom, and I don't think he believed me. I had flashbacks of my Mom whispering, 'She's just creative, it's okay.' Whatever. If the shoe-talker is reading this, or if you yourself have talked to the shoes of strangers in a bathroom stall, quit it. It's just plain weird.
Now let’s go play in Traffic with some high-heeled boys…
I so so love your writing. Just keep doing it even though this is archive stuff if I remember how I got here.
I was, as a teenager, a qualified and experienced demon-boy. With friends who shared the same quirkiness. Or creativity. We thrived in the dark, too. Exhibits: A) Often, we’d drive around in a giant Buick known as the “bue-hog” that we kept selling to each other for a $1 or so, at 2-3am, looking for those coin operated self-serve car washes. We’d find a guy just minding his business, washing his car in the middle of the night. Then we’d pull up right behind him, that 405 Bue-hog engine with a gallons-per-mile rating rumbling, and scream and blow the horn that we’ve been waiting for way too long and could he hurry it up. See, creative.
B) We’d rent VHS movies, then carefully dismantle them and transplant blank tape into the VHS container. Some will be too young to understand this. “Be Kind Rewind” and so we’d make sure to drop off the movie in its original packaging, now with blank tape NOT rewound, piss off the counter clerk, and jettison back to the Bue-hog and make haste outta there…
I haven’t recalled those horribly mean things until now, but it proves to me on this fine day that I’m probably not a nice person in the general, but I’m very kind in the specific. Or something.
Excellent post, I can’t wait for the next one, Wendy! Thanks for putting it up.
“Every day it’s the same thing—variety!”
(King Henry VIII to Bugs Bunny, Esq.)