I’m sorry, cab drivers, for walking on June nights wearing shorts or a dress to meet my friends at a bar. I realize feminine clothing must mean I’m a damsel who wants you to save me from the distress of a peaceful walk during the time of night where I don’t start perspiring as soon as I leave the house. I’m sorry if I live in a neighborhood where no one wears shorts or skirts longer than mid-thigh. I usually flip off cab drivers when they try to give me an unsolicited ride, or put together a choice string of obscenities. But one night, a stealth cabbie attacked. I was a two blocks out of my apartment, walking not too far from the BQE off-ramp. I saw several cars out of my peripheral. One came from out of nowhere, driving way slower than the rest. The car pulled up right next to me, and said, “Hey.”
“NO,” I yelled. He kept driving next to me.
“NO,” I yelled again. He wouldn’t go away. I turned my head slightly, preparing to yell again, this time slightly turning my head. The car was not yellow and didn’t resemble any sort of Lincoln. It was some kind of newer Honda/Hyundai/Saturn, and the driver was leaning over his passenger seat to lower his head to see me out of his passenger window. His symmetrical payot ringlets bounced in front of his full beard and he wore a white shirt under a black suit jacket. Holding some kind of book in his hand, I’m pretty sure in Hebrew, he crouched down his head lower and asked me, “Hey, where you going?”
“Far, far away from you,” I yelled, keeping my head straightforward. He continued to mutter and drive slowly next to me for about ten more feet, I kept storming down block. A second after he drove off, I stopped dead in my cowboy boots and said, “eeeeeeww,” out loud.
If not covering my hair with a wig and wearing skirts above my ankle make me a tainted harlot to someone, I guess they could confuse me for a hooker if while I was clad in my gold cowboy boots, halter top and short shorts. But I can’t ever understand masking my inner scumbag with any sort of pious exterior.