Licked

Things have come to a pretty pass when a grown-ass woman can't eat an ice-cream cone in a public street without being subjected to the seamier side of human nature.



This morning was my monthly trip to the methadone clinic. Since the loaner van hadn't magically self-repaired, it was public trans for good ol' Gladys. I didn't mind too much, actually; that trip is pretty painless, just a Blue Line and a Red Line.



After my appointment, I did what I usually do when I go to the clinic on a Saturday morning; I go and get myself a soft-serve cone from Jake's, over by Montrose and Sheridan. It's a habit I got into when I lived with CR; I'd get my ice cream, then I would walk home, or as much of the way home as I felt like walking. It was my one peaceful time of day.



So today, I'm walking up Sheridan, with the object of getting back to the Wilson El stop and heading back south in time for the tow-truck driver to get the van. And as I am walking, I am eating my ice-cream.



I have walked less than a block when this young guy, walking in the opposite direction, grins at me and says "Damn--I wish I was that ice-cream cone!!"



Now, I'll admit it--it was kinda funny. I'm not a particularly lascivious ice-cream licker, but there's still a definite sexual undertone to the very act of licking. So yeah, I laughed. And kept walking.



Half a block down, I realize: This guy is FOLLOWING me.



"Why you laughin'?" he asked. "Is it that funny?"

"Something like that."

"So...you in school around here?? Truman???"

"Nope...I'm a looooong time out of school."

"Well, all I'm sayin' is, I wanna be that ice cream cone, but you won't let me..."

"I think my boyfriend would have a problem with that," I say.

"I won't tell him!"

"I think he'll figure it out," I let him know.



Apparently that convinced him. (The weirdest thing about the whole experience: it was a WHITE guy. They almost NEVER look at me.)



Then, as I'm waiting to cross Broadway, this little teeny African-American woman comes up to me--I'm not sure if maybe she was homeless, or maybe had some developmental thing going on--but then SHE starts.



"Ice cream good?" she asks me.

"Oh yeah," I say.

"What is that--chocolate and vanilla?"

"Mm-hmm," I say, around a bite of cone.

"I looove vanilla," she tells me.

I am not sure what I am meant to do with this information, but fortunately the light changes at that point, and I just smile and walk on.



I'm thinking of switching to some less-Freudian treat.