Just when I thought I’d experienced crazy . . .

Today an Indian man, old enough to be my dad, asked me for my digits. Needless to say, I didn’t give them to him – I got his and told him that, if anything, I would call him. That didn’t really please him but since when did I aim to please?

It all started when I, in haste, almost got knocked down by his cart in the grocery store. So, okay, he didn’t come that close to hitting me but it was one of those things where I was walking down the main isle and he was coming up one of the smaller isles, unable to see me and my haste. As I came upon him, and he upon me, I said a quick, “I’m sorry,” and kept moving.

About, let’s say, 7 minutes later (just a rough estimate that takes into account my haste and my distance from the place at which we first encountered each other) I was looking over some $1 priced items and heard a friendly, “Hello.” I honestly expected to turn around and see someone I knew, but no, guess who? Yup, the man with the cart. Based on the ease with which he spoke I could presume he’s quite familiar with the flirtation business.

But regardless, his next words had something to do with my beautiful facial features that made him think for a second that I was Indian, as he. And yes, for a moment, I felt that yummy feeling one gets when unexpectedly complimented by someone who is not obviously disreputable. However, the moment ended when he proceeded to offer up the possibility that we keep in touch.

What!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! There I was, all 24 years of me, looking at this man and thinking, “You could be my dad!” amazed that he had the nerve to continue conversing, asking me what my roots are (how did he know I’m not American?) and smiling when I told him that my mother is Guyanese because Indians live in Guyana and there is a strong possibility that my mother has Indian in her, therefore making me part Indian and, hence, part of him. YUCK! (Not that he said all that – my overly active imagination concocted some of that.)

When, after he suggested that we go out or talk on the phone, I declined his invitation, saying that I was not comfortable and this is the city etc, he looked offended. And even though he admitted that were I his daughter or niece he would understand, he still saw no reason why we could not at least talk on the phone. He wouldn’t call me – I could make the first move.

So he ripped a piece of paper in two, wrote his name and number on one half, gave that half to me and then asked me to write my info on the other half. I, with all my city smarts added to the fact that he could be my DAD, said, “No, that’s alright – I’ll call you.”

(And before I forget, let me mention that he made sure to shake my hand as much as possible and hold it as long as possible. Each time, I had to pull away and felt the reluctance in his hand, which only deepened my feeling of YUCK.)

So, anyway, he finally bid me farewell, shaking my hand one last time and saying one last time that it would be good for us to keep in touch. Oh . . . No!

I hurried to the check out, wondering if he’d follow me, thankful that I no longer lived down the street. The craziest thing is . . . I haven’t thrown away his number. I’m so intrigued that I want to check him out. It’s his work phone. I want to know what he does and where he does it. I’ve deduced that he is a lonely old man, someone who thinks that the attention of some young Black thing with Indian features would make him happy. “We could go out for Indian food,” was another one of his lines.

In times like these, a very small part of me wishes that men think I’m beautiful only when I want them to. But such is not possible and most horribly, I dare to walk with my head up – something I think attracts men to me. “She’s a confident woman, just what I need,” they think. Little do they know that this confident woman doesn’t want a sweet talker or a smooth walker. Yet, I must admit, the attention is nice and no matter how confident I am the affirmation is appreciated.

But why, Lord? Why was he old enough to be my dad?