Poop Turds
I walk into Calvin Fletcher's on a Friday afternoon, pulling off my gloves and blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim light. It's sunny outside today but still cold—a winter fakeout. This winter will never end.
I walk inside a few steps and turn in a circle, scoping out the seating. All our preferred spots are taken—in fact, there aren't any empty tables at all. I stand there dumbly for a moment, uncertain where to go and aware that people are looking at me. I head for the sitting area at the back of the room. There's a man sitting in one of the chairs, but the couch is free—and maybe by the time Sarah gets here something will open up, anyway.
As I walk over, the man is staring at me in a way that sets off warning bells—as if he's been waiting for me, as if he knows I'm coming that direction and is excited about it. It's too late to change my path—I've already committed. I sit down, take off my coat, and pull out my computer, hoping to inspire a sense of extreme preoccupation, of "I really can't talk to you, I've got shit to do."
"Hi, there," he says. His silver blond hair is swept back in an exaggerated poof, his eyes a strange silver blue. He's wearing a blue button up shirt with white diamonds on it, the sleeves rolled up to show his black leather bracelets.
"Hello," I say.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"It is." I feel, as I always do in these situations, an obligation to be polite, to prove I'm not too introverted to have a friendly conversation. "It's crazy how warm 40 degree weather can feel when you're used to 20."
This is bullshit. It doesn't feel warm. I will never feel warm again. But this is the kind of thing people say.
"So true. So, what's your name?"
Ugh.
"Haley. Yours?"
"Dwayne. What do you do?"
"I'm a marketing consultant." I explain SEO to him for a few moments, and he responds, "Oh, it's like hashtags." No, not really, but I make some kind of noise of agreement, clicking on things on my computer and trying to send signals the conversation is over.
"I'm an artist," he says.
"Oh really? What kind?"
"Abstract."
"Paintings?"
"Yeah. Here, it's easier to show you." He pulls up a painting on his phone.
1) It's not abstract. It's a landscape with trees.
2) It looks like a middle schooler's art show painting. It is truly bad.
"I've also written a book," he says. "A publisher just contacted me."
"That's great. Congratulations." Where is Sarah?
"Yeah, thanks. I've been studying NLP and it's really been helping me achieve my goals."
"Oh?" Why do I let myself get stuck in these situations? How can I get myself out of this?
"Do you know what that is?"
"No."
"Neuro-linguistic programming. It's the idea that every single thing you think of will happen. You think it, it happens."
"That's an interesting theory."
"It's not a theory, it's true."
"But what if I think, 'It's raining right now.' It's not raining right now." I gesture towards the front windows.
"But in 30 days it will." The way he's staring at me makes it clear he thinks he's just blown my mind."
"Heh."
"Everything happens eventually. Take what you're doing now. How long did it take you to achieve it?"
"Consulting? I dunno, a year."
"So you made up your mind to do it and eventually it all just fell into your lap."
"Well, I worked for it."
He ignores this. "When I finished my book, I didn't call a publisher. I just thought about getting it published, and then a publisher called me. Everything comes to you. Everything you've dreamed of. Skin conditions, allergies, illnesses, everything can be fixed."
I pick up my phone, pretending I got a text message. "This guy won't stop talking to me," I text to Sarah.
"You know, I learned something interesting recently. The cells that are in our brains are the same as the cells in our skin. It's like our brain reaching out to interact with the world. The energy between us—" he gestures towards me and I flinch back a little. "It's made of the same stuff. Everything is the same, and we can manipulate it with our minds. The food we eat our stomachs know how to process—"
At this point I stop really listening and am too consumed with my own inner monologue. Where is Sarah? For the love of God. Surely she'll be here soon. What kind of excuse can I make to get him to leave me alone? This guy is insane. Normal people would have gotten themselves out of this situation by now. Why do I feel like I still have to be nice? Would he be talking to me if I were a man? Would I still be sitting here if I weren't a woman?
I'm making occasional noises—"hmm." "uh huh."—sure there's a look of panic on my face.
"Here, this is my book. It's a children's book." He hands me a black, plastic covered portfolio with photo sleeves in it. I start flipping through. The first page has the title: "Poop Turds."
"They're all chalk art."
The next page has an amateurish illustration of a pile of poop with a face on it. "Poop turds don't brush their teeth," the text reads.
"Poop turds don't take a bath."
"Don't be a poop turd!"
There's a picture of a poop turd under a tree. I'm not sure what's going on there. The rest of the book is a series of characters. There's a poop turd wearing a scarf. One wearing a hat. One has the name, "Fiona Feces."
I close the book and hand it back to him, unsure what to say.
"Yeah, I was going to self-publish it on Amazon, but this guy just called me out of the blue."
Suddenly Sarah appears next to me, tossing her bag down next to me on the couch.
"Hi," I say, relief flooding my body. "How's it going?"
"Okay," she says, clearly flustered. "Sorry I'm late."
"No problem. It was busy earlier," I say, making a big show of looking around. "Our usual seats weren't available. Were they open when you walked in?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Cool, let's head that way."
I smile in Dwayne's direction as I'm gathering up all my things, still unwilling to be rude. "Nice to meet you. Congratulations again on your book!"
"Nice to meet you too. I hope I wasn't talking your ear off with things you already knew."
Sarah and I sit down in the front of the coffee shop, hidden behind a bookshelf.
"Oh my god, Sarah," I say.
"Yeah, I could tell you wanted to get out of there."
"You have no idea."
Later I see Dwayne leave and avoid returning his smile, my head down and typing furiously like I'm too consumed with what I'm doing to be aware of his presence. Once he's gone it's finally safe to go to the bathroom—I've been holding it for 30 minutes.
I walk inside a few steps and turn in a circle, scoping out the seating. All our preferred spots are taken—in fact, there aren't any empty tables at all. I stand there dumbly for a moment, uncertain where to go and aware that people are looking at me. I head for the sitting area at the back of the room. There's a man sitting in one of the chairs, but the couch is free—and maybe by the time Sarah gets here something will open up, anyway.
As I walk over, the man is staring at me in a way that sets off warning bells—as if he's been waiting for me, as if he knows I'm coming that direction and is excited about it. It's too late to change my path—I've already committed. I sit down, take off my coat, and pull out my computer, hoping to inspire a sense of extreme preoccupation, of "I really can't talk to you, I've got shit to do."
"Hi, there," he says. His silver blond hair is swept back in an exaggerated poof, his eyes a strange silver blue. He's wearing a blue button up shirt with white diamonds on it, the sleeves rolled up to show his black leather bracelets.
"Hello," I say.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"It is." I feel, as I always do in these situations, an obligation to be polite, to prove I'm not too introverted to have a friendly conversation. "It's crazy how warm 40 degree weather can feel when you're used to 20."
This is bullshit. It doesn't feel warm. I will never feel warm again. But this is the kind of thing people say.
"So true. So, what's your name?"
Ugh.
"Haley. Yours?"
"Dwayne. What do you do?"
"I'm a marketing consultant." I explain SEO to him for a few moments, and he responds, "Oh, it's like hashtags." No, not really, but I make some kind of noise of agreement, clicking on things on my computer and trying to send signals the conversation is over.
"I'm an artist," he says.
"Oh really? What kind?"
"Abstract."
"Paintings?"
"Yeah. Here, it's easier to show you." He pulls up a painting on his phone.
1) It's not abstract. It's a landscape with trees.
2) It looks like a middle schooler's art show painting. It is truly bad.
"I've also written a book," he says. "A publisher just contacted me."
"That's great. Congratulations." Where is Sarah?
"Yeah, thanks. I've been studying NLP and it's really been helping me achieve my goals."
"Oh?" Why do I let myself get stuck in these situations? How can I get myself out of this?
"Do you know what that is?"
"No."
"Neuro-linguistic programming. It's the idea that every single thing you think of will happen. You think it, it happens."
"That's an interesting theory."
"It's not a theory, it's true."
"But what if I think, 'It's raining right now.' It's not raining right now." I gesture towards the front windows.
"But in 30 days it will." The way he's staring at me makes it clear he thinks he's just blown my mind."
"Heh."
"Everything happens eventually. Take what you're doing now. How long did it take you to achieve it?"
"Consulting? I dunno, a year."
"So you made up your mind to do it and eventually it all just fell into your lap."
"Well, I worked for it."
He ignores this. "When I finished my book, I didn't call a publisher. I just thought about getting it published, and then a publisher called me. Everything comes to you. Everything you've dreamed of. Skin conditions, allergies, illnesses, everything can be fixed."
I pick up my phone, pretending I got a text message. "This guy won't stop talking to me," I text to Sarah.
"You know, I learned something interesting recently. The cells that are in our brains are the same as the cells in our skin. It's like our brain reaching out to interact with the world. The energy between us—" he gestures towards me and I flinch back a little. "It's made of the same stuff. Everything is the same, and we can manipulate it with our minds. The food we eat our stomachs know how to process—"
At this point I stop really listening and am too consumed with my own inner monologue. Where is Sarah? For the love of God. Surely she'll be here soon. What kind of excuse can I make to get him to leave me alone? This guy is insane. Normal people would have gotten themselves out of this situation by now. Why do I feel like I still have to be nice? Would he be talking to me if I were a man? Would I still be sitting here if I weren't a woman?
I'm making occasional noises—"hmm." "uh huh."—sure there's a look of panic on my face.
"Here, this is my book. It's a children's book." He hands me a black, plastic covered portfolio with photo sleeves in it. I start flipping through. The first page has the title: "Poop Turds."
"They're all chalk art."
The next page has an amateurish illustration of a pile of poop with a face on it. "Poop turds don't brush their teeth," the text reads.
"Poop turds don't take a bath."
"Don't be a poop turd!"
There's a picture of a poop turd under a tree. I'm not sure what's going on there. The rest of the book is a series of characters. There's a poop turd wearing a scarf. One wearing a hat. One has the name, "Fiona Feces."
I close the book and hand it back to him, unsure what to say.
"Yeah, I was going to self-publish it on Amazon, but this guy just called me out of the blue."
Suddenly Sarah appears next to me, tossing her bag down next to me on the couch.
"Hi," I say, relief flooding my body. "How's it going?"
"Okay," she says, clearly flustered. "Sorry I'm late."
"No problem. It was busy earlier," I say, making a big show of looking around. "Our usual seats weren't available. Were they open when you walked in?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Cool, let's head that way."
I smile in Dwayne's direction as I'm gathering up all my things, still unwilling to be rude. "Nice to meet you. Congratulations again on your book!"
"Nice to meet you too. I hope I wasn't talking your ear off with things you already knew."
Sarah and I sit down in the front of the coffee shop, hidden behind a bookshelf.
"Oh my god, Sarah," I say.
"Yeah, I could tell you wanted to get out of there."
"You have no idea."
Later I see Dwayne leave and avoid returning his smile, my head down and typing furiously like I'm too consumed with what I'm doing to be aware of his presence. Once he's gone it's finally safe to go to the bathroom—I've been holding it for 30 minutes.