Stalker Pants

by

Good grief, Charlie Brown.  I found myself doing something I have never, ever, ever done today.

I, shhhh, do not tell my employers,  hell I am not sure why I am even writing about this, but it won’t get out of my head.  So here goes.

I googled some one who came into the shop.  I took their name off the credit card slip they used and googled them.

Shame on me.

I am embarrassed.

Although, not nearly as embarrassed as I was when I realized what a ridiculously human response I was having to this man.

He is not our typical customer.  He already had a bike he was quite happy with.  He just happened in looking to replace a pedal on his mountain bike.  He did not care a hoot about design or aesthetics.  He cut right to the chase–what’s the cheapest pedal I can get?

I have never dashed around the store trying to accommodate some one more.  I got the mechanics to put his pedals on, talked to him about lights, actually sold him some, although lights typically sell themselves.  You need them on your bike.  There is only one law in San Francisco on the books about bicycles, that I am aware of, and that is that if you ride at night you must have both a front and a rear light.

We sell a lot of lights.  They are often left on bikes and they are often stolen.  We probably re-order our lights once a week.  So, my charms probably had nothing to do with his decision to buy lights.

Although he did ask for me to recite a sonnet.

What in the world would have made him ask that, you may be wondering.  Because I blurted out some thing along the lines of I can’t do anything mechanical, like put pedals on your bike, but I can ring up the sale and I can bake a pie and I can recite a sonnet.  What malarkey.

I do know why that popped out, I wanted to impress him with my poetic soul?

Gah.

What the fuck?

He left his debit card with me and went out to hang posters.  Is this his job, I don’t know.  Is he in a band, I don’t know.  But, hey I’ve got his debit card so let’s play stalker.

I googled him.  He is on Facebook.  But he’s in Somalia.  Probably not this guy.

Ooh, there’s an obit.  Looks like lots of people really love and admire him.

Wait, obit, obituary.  Duh.  Dead person.

He’s not dead yet.

I calm down.  I reach for a business card, not the shop card, but my card, my card with my cell phone on it.  Should I circle my number?  I saw no wedding band.  Should I just hand it to him and say call me?

Should I put it back?  OR maybe slip it into his helmet?  He left his helmet as well.

I am officially in a dither.  Maybe he’s not as attractive as I think.

He’s back.

Oh, shit, yes he is.

But not in an obvious way.  There’s just something about him.  I don’t know what, I am not sure how to deconstruct it (and at this point, memory fails me a bit, he’s tall, has a bald head, a medium length beard/goatee ginger in color, no clue on eye color–blushed every time I made eye contact–could not maintain eye contact, he was wearing an old metal t-shirt of some band or another that I vaguely could recall from New York, punk/metal scene, he had a little tummy, I thought it was cute, a largish nose), maybe it was pheromones.

Maybe its I haven’t had sex in a long time.

Maybe it’s fate.

Shut up.

Then he asks for the sonnet.  I am opening up the lights that he purchased and he asks for the poem.  I totally freeze up.  He accuses me of lying about having it memorized.  I start reciting the one I know and I am suddenly shaking.  Although I don’t realize it.  I am shaking.  My hands are shaking.  Why can’t I open this freaking light box?

Because my hands are shaking so hard I am about to drop it.  I am light-headed.  And best thing ever, I am sweating.  I can feel my armpits getting damp.

Jesus.

I am so sexy in this moment.

I am about to finish the poem when I realize that the couplet ends with breast.  I am not about to say “sugar tit breast” in front of this man.  I pause, finally having gotten the light out of the box, I hand it to him and I just stop.

Stop right there.  I rip open the second box and say something asinine about how the batteries that are included are generic and he’ll want to pick up real triple A’s somewhere else.

Spell is broken.  I can still see my right hand is trembling as I hand over the second light, which he affixes to his bike, takes his helmet, thanks me, shoulders his bag, and rides off into the night.

I have nothing. My card is on the desk.  I have nothing but wet armpits.  Grand.

I have made no impression other than being a bumbling idiot in front of my co-workers, messing up my favorite poem, and sweating through my t-shirt.

Great.

I pick up his receipt. His name is on the receipt.

NO.

I do it anyway.  I google again.  Same results as last time.  His name is just a little too common.  This is a good thing.

Should I post to craigslist missed connections?

Should I just forget it?

How about this, crazy lady, he knows where you work.  If he’s interested you’ll see him again.  If it’s meant to be, it’ll be and no amount of manipulation will make it happen.

Odds are I just need to get laid.

My baby maker got triggered tonight.

Sonya, one of the little girls I nannied for, came in with her papa today.  I haven’t seen her since November.  She has gotten so big!  And she was a little shy with me at first, then she let me pick her up and snuggle her and I gave her stickers and stuck them on my nose and hugged her dad, who brought my W-2s with him (good thing, I need to take care of doing my taxes, I’m counting on a return to purchase my bike, all the parts are just about in and it will be built up next week), and twirled her around and kissed her, I put helmets on her head and blew raspberries on her neck, and toured her about the store.

She’s not my favorite bug, that honor will always be Juni’s but she’s a pretty awesome little monkey, and of the last set that I took care of, my favorite hands down, and I love her very much and I obviously have missed her.  She smelled amazing and her hair, which is this delirious froth of red curls, was longer and she held my hand and whispered under her breath at me.  I could have just sat in  corner of the shop with her all night.

When it was time for the visit to end I walked her and her dad over to Paxton Gate for Kids, which is right next door–dad had never been–and put Sonya down in front of a tree draped in sock monkeys.  She stood on the threshold of the toy store and reached for her father’s hand and I had to run, I had to go, my heart was just breaking.

My co-worker noticed and I excused myself to make a cup of tea and grab dinner, really it was to wipe the tears out of my eyes.

When I came back down the guy walked in the store.  I think I was having a hormonal response to having just snuggled with a two-year old girl.

Because I acted like a hormonal sixteen year old.

I apparently still have a ticking time bomb in my ovaries.

AWESOME.

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