FlamingText

Profiling

I hate it when I catch myself stereotyping. Like, the other day I was at the Seven-Eleven getting some gas (for my car -- I'm not talking about the chili dogs), and as I was watching the little digital counter spin up into the sixth digit and wondering how difficult it would be to change my identity and leave the country before my credit card bill shows up at my house, I heard a voice from somewhere across Madison shout something I couldn't really understand, although I was able to discern the phrase "Go to hell" in there somewhere. I looked around for where the noise came from, my eyes moving without pause over several different possible candidates: Family waiting in their automobile while dad was inside the store buying smokes -- nope. Fellow commuters standing at the pumps, silently mouthing curses to the evil lords of petroleum while Junior's college fund flowed into their SUV's tank -- nope. Gay couple walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk -- nope. And then I saw him: Shirtless Man.

Aha!

And this is what I mean by stereotyping, because I of course immediately and unfairly assumed that Shirtless Man must be the source of the unintelligible rant I had just overheard, and I based this assumption purely on the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt. I know that this is unfair. Just because a guy can't afford a shirt, or gets hot and wants to take his shirt off and wear it around his waist like a belt, and just because he has a faraway look in his eyes like he has no idea where he is and he's scuttling down the sidewalk while stealing furtive glances over his shoulder at nobody in particular DOESN'T mean that he's the kind of guy who would just walk down the street shouting curse words at the top of his lungs to whoever will listen.

I mean, of course it was him, a fact proven to my satisfaction when I saw him turn around and again shout a stream of invective about going to hell to passers-by crossing at the crosswalk on 15th. But still, I feel bad for jumping to that conclusion.

I encounter a shirtless man pretty much every other time I stop to get gas here. Also, this is the gas station where I heard the worst ever pitch for money from a panhandler. This guy was of the I-just-need-money-to-take-a-bus-back-to-Olympia variety, i.e. panhandlers who pretend they're not and always try for at least ten dollars at a time. I was filling up my tires with air because this is the only working air pump on the Hill, and so I was hunched over the valve on the right rear tire when he came walking up and stood right next to the rear bumper, looming over me to deliver his opening line:
"Hi! You've got pretty eyes."

It definitely did get my attention, in that I immediately stood up and faced him while I considered my chances if I had to defend myself by beating him with a pressure valve. I'm sure it's a proven sales method to lead with a compliment, but technique does matter.

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This cabaret I've been putting together for the last month or so is happening tomorrow night here, and you can buy tickets here. If you're in Seattle, you should come down and see me play. If you're not in Seattle, hell, buy a ticket anyway. It's for a good cause -- starving musicians.

It will be a hell of a lot of fun.

Posted by flamingbanjo at August 26, 2005 02:37 PM