Even today’s weird was weird: For once I ran into a creep after getting off the train.
So, I’ve had my share of migraines, and this morning’s started by messing with my sense of gravity. Floating, as it were, above myself, I made my way to school. Once planted in a seat on the train, I slipped some headphones on and tried to drown out the pounding in my skull.
I’m not at my best in these situations, and have no doubt my face was contorted in a grimace. Progressing through the stops, the train finally came to my school. Disembarking, I was met with a bitter cold. Immediately, I felt the call of nature.
The influence of the city has not yet civilized me to their ways, and so I sought out a restroom. Waiting uncomfortably at crosswalk after crosswalk—twice suffering perdition due to my headache and my need—I finally found myself coming to the door of the men’s room.
Walking towards this, my gaze was briefly arrested by one whom I err on the side of being female. What interested me was a tattoo of a crown upon her neck. It was off center, and compounding with everything else, bothered me in that way one small inconvenience can, swelling to overshadow all other troubles.
Keep in mind, for all I know I presented this androgynous individual with something of a scowl. It was not directed at what I’ll call her, but was in response to the unionized brain cells throwing their sabots into the machinery.
Falling into the door, I waded through the thickening air towards a urinal. Blessing the persistent distraction of the radio, I finished my deposit and sought to wash my hands. Too subdued by the migraine to react, I found myself staring dumbly at the girl with the skewed tattoo standing by the sinks with her arms crossed. She glared at me with what I might describe as a catlike fury, the kind of look a tabby has before pouncing upon something.
Well, I’m not from the city, and I know the ways of the city are different than the ways of honest people. Adopting the maxim, “When in Rome,” I came to the sink and ran some water over my hands.
“How are you?” I heard her ask above the radio.
Concentrating on the faucet as the rest of the world swirled down the drain, I managed to string some words together: “I have a headache.”
“Why do you have a headache?” she continued.
This was a very interesting question, and I suppose, were a root cause for my infirmity known, it would be a step closer in putting a final end to my problem. However, this further inquiry seemed a rather odd response on her part—us non-city dwellers use this phrase by way of explaining that we have a headache—which was in keeping with the so far perplexing situation.
Attempting not to hurl, I said, “I always have headaches.”
Whatever her response was, I couldn’t really hear it. Staggering to the door, I wished her a good day.
I’ve related this story to some of my relatives now, and whereas it has mostly produced incredulity on their parts, some theories as to the motives of this individual have been put forward. Perhaps this is how propositions work? Or maybe she only wanted a friend.
My own theory: Many bathrooms in my school have some propaganda in the form of a notice citing that a transgender relieved themselves here. Many of these citations have been tagged with graffiti or removed. The one that had been in this bathroom had been half torn off the mirror, and left with indecipherable black lettering scrawled over it. Today, the little notice was gone. So, I think some gender-confused social justice crybaby was looking to start a fight with anyone who’d buck if an effeminate body stared at their family jewels.
In a city where friends greet each other with the phrase, “You dumb f**k,” it makes a sort of symmetric sense that they would start fights with a polite inquiry after your health. Whatever the case may be, I spent the rest of the day half expecting her to pop out at me around every corner.
Tale Told 