He completely creeps me out with all his religious tattoos up and down his arms, the pop-bottle glasses, the straw hat, and sly way he seems to emphasize his southern drawl. Once you cross the Mason-Dixon line, chewing on toothpicks and wearing a fringy, suede vest makes you a bit laughable here in these parts.
He is not charming. He is not sexy. I wish he’d leave me alone.
Yet, he frequents the library often and always makes a point of visiting with me.
Often there is nowhere to run.
It becomes increasingly difficult to hide my horror when I see him walk in the door, though I try to be civilized and professional.
He always asks me out for coffee. I tell him I don’t drink coffee. He then asks me out for whatever I drink.
I have come very close to giving up all beverages because of him.
Instead I explain that my boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate such a meeting.
He smiles sinisterly and says that his wife would not either, but as long as we behave, there is no harm.
Vomit. Bile. Last week’s digested meals. Bits of my own broken down digestive tract. Chunks of my reproductive system self destructing and rising in the eruption of insides wanting to become outsides.
The misbehavior I am inspired with when he is around is not the kind he’s thinking of, unless he’s imagining himself rolled up in an area rug and run over with a bulldozer before being buried semi-alive in a shallow grave somewhere near a fire ant hill.
I withdraw when he’s near. I pull my hands off the desk and push my chair back, keeping my distance because whenever he comes in, he tries to touch me. Not in a molesting way, but in an overtly desperate need to make contact way. It bothers me. The contact doesn’t bother me, but I follow his eyes, and I watch his behavior because he baits me to expose a part of myself that he can touch, and that bothers me. It’s the manipulation and it’s the fact that he thinks he has some kind of right to touch me.
He asks for books on blackjack tournaments, which is a creature unknown to me. Poker, yes. Blackjack -- never thought it could turn into a tournament.
This requires me to take my hands out of my lap, move forward a bit, and use the mouse and keyboard. He watches my hands move up to the desk and he stares openly at the movements.
We have no material on blackjack tournaments and strategy guides to help you win them. I tell him I cannot find any in existence, but the truth is I’m not looking all that hard because each time I move my hand to mouse something, his eyes follow and it creeps me out more.
He’s going to touch my hand, I can just tell.
He is not charming. He is not sexy. I wish he’d leave me alone.
Yet, he frequents the library often and always makes a point of visiting with me.
Often there is nowhere to run.
It becomes increasingly difficult to hide my horror when I see him walk in the door, though I try to be civilized and professional.
He always asks me out for coffee. I tell him I don’t drink coffee. He then asks me out for whatever I drink.
I have come very close to giving up all beverages because of him.
Instead I explain that my boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate such a meeting.
He smiles sinisterly and says that his wife would not either, but as long as we behave, there is no harm.
Vomit. Bile. Last week’s digested meals. Bits of my own broken down digestive tract. Chunks of my reproductive system self destructing and rising in the eruption of insides wanting to become outsides.
The misbehavior I am inspired with when he is around is not the kind he’s thinking of, unless he’s imagining himself rolled up in an area rug and run over with a bulldozer before being buried semi-alive in a shallow grave somewhere near a fire ant hill.
I withdraw when he’s near. I pull my hands off the desk and push my chair back, keeping my distance because whenever he comes in, he tries to touch me. Not in a molesting way, but in an overtly desperate need to make contact way. It bothers me. The contact doesn’t bother me, but I follow his eyes, and I watch his behavior because he baits me to expose a part of myself that he can touch, and that bothers me. It’s the manipulation and it’s the fact that he thinks he has some kind of right to touch me.
He asks for books on blackjack tournaments, which is a creature unknown to me. Poker, yes. Blackjack -- never thought it could turn into a tournament.
This requires me to take my hands out of my lap, move forward a bit, and use the mouse and keyboard. He watches my hands move up to the desk and he stares openly at the movements.
We have no material on blackjack tournaments and strategy guides to help you win them. I tell him I cannot find any in existence, but the truth is I’m not looking all that hard because each time I move my hand to mouse something, his eyes follow and it creeps me out more.
He’s going to touch my hand, I can just tell.
My arm twitches at the thought. I look around for another patron, another staff member, anyone I can make eye contact with and somehow indicate that I need to be rescued, but no one is nearby.
He says, “Now that’s just the purtiest ring you got there,” and before I can yank my hand away, he’s holding it in both of his, turning my ring so that the ruby faces him.
I thank him coldly and pull my hand away.
He seems a little bit shocked at my shortness and dislike of his handling. He then thanks me for my help, accepts that there are no books on the topic he is asking about (as if he never really cared anyway), and bids me farewell.
If he wasn’t a foot shorter than me and in his late 50s or early 60s, I’d be concerned that he might be a serial killer or other dangerous deviant.
Clearly he has a hand fetish.
Then again, if he catches me wandering around the library without my protective desk between us, he will touch my shoulder, my back or any part of me that is within reach.
It really creeps me out.
Sometimes he sings to me. This is easy enough to curtail since it is a library.
He says, “Now that’s just the purtiest ring you got there,” and before I can yank my hand away, he’s holding it in both of his, turning my ring so that the ruby faces him.
I thank him coldly and pull my hand away.
He seems a little bit shocked at my shortness and dislike of his handling. He then thanks me for my help, accepts that there are no books on the topic he is asking about (as if he never really cared anyway), and bids me farewell.
If he wasn’t a foot shorter than me and in his late 50s or early 60s, I’d be concerned that he might be a serial killer or other dangerous deviant.
Clearly he has a hand fetish.
Then again, if he catches me wandering around the library without my protective desk between us, he will touch my shoulder, my back or any part of me that is within reach.
It really creeps me out.
Sometimes he sings to me. This is easy enough to curtail since it is a library.
He’s invited me to his many performances at nursing homes around the area, where he plays gospel songs for the residents. I think that if he and I were in a place where death is a fairly common occurrence, it would inspire me.
How many ways can one murder another with an acoustic guitar?
On that pleasant though, I shall venture off into dreamland.
...strangulation with guitar strings...impaled with fretboard...beat about the head with entire instrument...zzzzzzz...
How many ways can one murder another with an acoustic guitar?
On that pleasant though, I shall venture off into dreamland.
...strangulation with guitar strings...impaled with fretboard...beat about the head with entire instrument...zzzzzzz...
2 comments:
Hmm. . .I think this guy---or relatives of his---shop at the Spendorama Dept. Store.
The next time he asks you for blackjack books, you might casually ask him if he means 'blackjack', like the small, black sock filled with steel ball-bearings that you just happen to carry in your purse, or the card game?
Or if he ever asks for suggestions for reading material, just direct him to the library's collection of martial arts manuals. Mention that you've read them all, several times, and suggest one title that's "almost as good as the self-defense course I took in the Army. Only not as detailed, of course." Smile, coldly, as you say this and stare intensely in his eyes.
This horny old fart is trying to intimidate you psychologically. Beat him at his own mind game. If he doesn't get the message, then speak to your supervisor about it. This wolf in sheep's clothing is harassing you and you don't have to take it.
Yikes, this guy really does sound creepy! *shudder*
When you see him again, also make sure there's at least one sharp, pointy object around...just in case.. ;)
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