Sometimes my determination to continued politeness is my undoing. It's not that I'm never overtly rude to anyone, it's just that, especially among strangers, I have this astonishing need to have people love me. Does that sound desperate?
My parents lived just outside of town, which meant that, while living under their roof, I had to take an hour-long bus-ride to get home at the end of the day. Fortunately enough, I enjoy just watching the scenery pass as I sit and contemplate the emptiness of my own life. Unfortunately, the people in my hometown weren't quite so pensive, and seemed determined to either attempt to befriend me, or to comment on my unapproachable demeanor.
I wouldn't normally consider myself to be anti-social, but there are days where I'm just so beaten down that I really want no contact with other people. One such day, where my first class had started at 6am, my last class finished at 4pm, and the bus I needed to get home left at 3:58, and I was left to wait for the 5:03 bus, I really just wanted to put on my hoodie and listen to music while napping on the drive home. Naturally, I wasn't wearing a hoodie, and the batteries in my disc man were dead, so I was left open to the world and forced to listen to it's inanity.
Once the bus had arrived and I had paid my fare, I admit to noticing a lot of empty seats. Being supremely nonchalant in my choice of seats, I ended up placing myself directly in front of Patti. Patti, it would turn out, was a very nice woman. A very nice woman who had Downs Syndrome.
The bus hadn't been moving for more than 45 seconds before I heard someone greet me, just barely above a whisper. I turned, scanning the cab for whoever spoke to me, and locked eyes with the Smiling-Patti. I smiled back, and nodded to her, and then turned back around.
I hadn't been turned away from her for more than 10 seconds before I heard, coming from directly behind me, "...hi," and once more I turned around, this time returning the greeting. Before I could turn my back to Patti again, she introduced herself. I said, still smiling, "it's nice to meet you," and turned away once more, hoping that that would be the end of it.
I'd like to make clear that I wasn't trying to avoid her because she had Downs Syndrome. I was trying to avoid her because I was trying to avoid everyone. I'm an equal-opportunity avoider.
As soon as I had turned around, she asked my name. I took a deep breath and turned myself in my seat so that my back was to the window and I could speak to her freely, understanding now that our interaction was unlikely to end until one of us had gotten off of the bus.
I forced myself to politely grin and told her that my name was Andy. It's not, but I was uncomfortable and I didn't really think she would ever find out the truth anyway. She started to ask me questions about myself, like what I did for a living, where I went to school, how many people I had in my family, where I lived...intrusive things like that. I gave non-committal answers where I revealed as little about myself as possible, which is strange looking back on it, because I'm pretty sure everything I said to her was a lie anyway. Either I was trying to give her the hint that I didn't want to talk to her, which she never picked up on, or I was trying to keep my lies in order so I wouldn't screw up later, which would only have served to end the conversation anyway.
Patti was telling me all about the scarf she was knitting for her father, and how her father had a cat that looked like it had a moustache, and how that cat looked a lot like her father because he, too, had a moustache. She then went on to tell me her favourite burger at Dairy Queen, and this, I could not take. I told her that I didn't much care for the non-dairy products at DQ, and the only reason to go there is for the ice cream. And that's how I feel to this day, and that small piece of information is the only thing about my relationship with Patti that isn't a lie. Patti, shocked, told me that I just hadn't eaten there with the right people, and that she would take me there one day. She then asked what day would be best for me, and I told her that I would have to check my calendar.
Then she asked for my phone number, which I really should have seen coming now that we'd set up an ice cream date. I said that I'd only recently moved into a new place and that my phone wasn't hooked up, so, naturally, she offered me her number. She rattled off a string of numbers, area-code included, and then we stared at each other for a few moments. "Do you want to write it down?" she asked, and I shook my head stating that I had a really good memory and that I wouldn't forget it. Thankfully she didn't ask me to repeat her number, because I'm not sure I could have listed a single digit correctly.
It was roughly at this time during the bus ride that Gillian, a girl I had known in high school got onto the bus. Excited to be saved from Patti, I turned and started speaking to Gillian, and Patti settled down into a calm silence behind me. She and I chatted for about 10 minutes before she said "well, it's great seeing you, but I'm going to read my book now," and she turned away. I turned away, too, hoping that Patti wouldn't try to start up conversation again. I, of course, was wrong.
I was sucked back into the imaginary relationship that Patti and I had cultivated over the last 40 minutes, and I could see Gillian side-eyeing me for talking to her but not actually saving me from the conversation. Patti started asking me when I was going to call her, which was never, but I said, "soon, I think, once my phone is hooked up," and that seemed to appease her. But, seriously, Downs Syndrome or not, I'm really not into women who are so aggressively clingy, so I can tell you now things wouldn't have worked out between us.
I knew I had only about 10 more minutes left in the bus seat, and Patti was starting to ask me more and more about myself, so I figured, what would it hurt to just talk for the next few minutes and then leave at my stop, assuming at this point that she was just riding the bus for fun and had no real destination in mind. So I told her about my dog, Bailey, and how I had gotten him one of those vibrating plastic balls with a stuffed weasel attached to it. Bailey absolutely hated his weasel-ball and would hide it behind the couch every time he saw it. Patti found my dog-stories to be quite delightful, which I will always love about her, but, alas, it was my time to get off the bus.
So I abruptly said, "whoops, this is my stop," in the middle of another sentence, and a full bus stop sooner than I needed to, and I exited into the fresh air. I gave a sigh of relief as soon as my shoes touched the sidewalk, and then a shudder of fear when I heard someone exiting the bus after me.
I started at a brisk walk and pretended to cough into my elbow so that I could get a brief look of who came off the bus behind me. Naturally, it was Patti following me up the sidewalk, so I pretended I didn't see her and continued on my power-walk unimpeded. I got to my driveway, ran to the door, and threw myself inside. Being as paranoid as I am I stood vigil at the window, hiding myself among the curtains, checking to see if she had followed me.
And there she stood, at the bottom of my driveway, just staring up at my door. In my nightmares, she stood there for hours, watching and waiting, but in reality she couldn't have been there for more than 2 minutes before she continued on her way up the street.
We never did go on our date to Dairy Queen, and I never called her.
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