Ya’ll ever been pimped out by your friend, neighbor,
classmate, acquaintance? I mean figuratively -- not literally as in arranging a
sex-for-money transaction. I’m talking about somebody who took something they
saw as a commodity you had and tried to use it to their advantage.
You know like the not-so-attractive chick who wants her better-looking
girlfriend to go clubbing with her to attract the men. She don’t even like that
girl, wouldn’t be bothered with her if she wasn’t so cute.
My neighbor tried it. I’ve had maybe five conversations with
this woman in the year I been here. But that didn’t stop her from leaving a
note in my mailbox (which really irks me because a) your mailbox actually belongs
to the U.S. Postal Service and b) it’s a federal offense to use it for anything
other U.S. Postal mail). But anyway, the note says, “I’m having a party
Saturday. Bring a couple packs of hot dogs.”
Okay.
Maybe it’s a cookout. A potluck cookout. Who knows. I figure
if it’s in the backyard, I might stop by, have a beer and see what’s grilling.
And I wouldn’t mind contributing. So initially, I was open.
The next day, there is this furious knock on my door (I have
a doorbell). It’s her teenage daughter. “My mom wants to talk to you.” I look
out my front door and she’s in her car in the middle of the street, gas
running, her foot on the brake. “Hey. There’s going to be nice men there.
Working men. From the post office.”
Okay.
“So you coming? Bring hot dogs - beef.”
So now they're beef. Right.
“Okay girl,” I say as I close my door, making sure to be
non-committal to this obviously a little bit crazy neighbor.
She knocks herself the next day (obviously this fam don’t use doorbells). “My friend from the post office is here. 20 years. He gonna be at the party. Come meet him.”
“Girl I don’t care. I ain’t trying to meet nobody,” I tell
her bluntly. Because I really ain’t trying to meet anyone, whether he been at
the post office for 20 years or not.
A look of shock and disbelief flashed across her face. She
simply could not fathom the fact that I, a single black woman, was not
interested in meeting her single black man friend. Who worked for the post
office. For 20 years.
When I went to walk my dog, she was on her porch, with the
postal worker – Andre. He was holding a can of malt liquor, he asked me if I
wanted one. He said he was hungry, he asked me if I cooked. He had cornrows in his hair, he asked me if I did braids. He told me he had kids, he asked me if I
wanted to be a mother. He said he was a Christian, he asked me if I went to
church. He referred to himself in the third person, he asked me my name at
least three times.
All of that occurred in the five minutes I stood there. As I
start to walk away, he asks for a hug and awkwardly wraps his arms around me. As
I move away, he gropes my ass.
I walk away disgusted. “Hey you still coming to the party?” the
neighbor calls out after me. “Don’t forget the sausages. John Morrell.”
Okay so they’re sausages now. John Morrell. Got it.
The day of the party, she's at my front door once again. “Hey
girl, the party is going to be off the chain. So when you go the store to get
meat for the party, make sure it’s John Morrel sausages. Get six packs – three pork
and three beef – cause everybody don’t like pork.”
I’m not feeling too well today, I tell her. So don’t count
on me coming. Or having the sausages.
Later in the day, I slip out my side door. She’s in
the backyard with the grill going and sees me. “Hey, you feeling better? You going
to the store? Can you pick us up some beer. And some Absolute. And don’t forget
the sausages. John Morrell. Five packs, beef. Five backs, pork.”
I nodded in polite disbelief, went back into my house and got my doggie and my overnight bag. Somebody else was going to have to bring the sausages.
