Okay, I've mentioned before how the Tim Hortons near the salon is some sort of clearing house for every nutbar in the city. I think they convene there every day, just to organize themselves. ("You, Crazy Talking Man, you take the west end, You, Parrot Woman, you get yourself to the courthouse and you with the Giant Mutant Head, you wander around here shouting 'the monkeys are listening!' ")
Today there was a guy parked beside the door in one of those huge motorized scooters with the Canadian flag sticking up off the back of it, and he was wearing shorts and a tank top, despite the fact that it was offensively cold out. He did look as though he was playing with only half a deck, and this was borne out by the fact that he bellowed "are you a boy or a girl?" to every single person who left. Some of them answered, but most people ignored him. The guy right ahead of me, clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing, but too Canadian to be outright rude, muttered "a boy" as he passed. And Scooter Man yelled "you're not good to me, son!" after him.
I was highly amused, and couldn't pass by without a hearty "I'm a girl!", and I was richly rewarded with an enthusiastic thumbs up as I went. "I like girls", he yelled after me, like maybe I doubted it, and he was reassuring me.
Made. My. Day.
1 comment:
that encounter would have had an entirely different effect on me and I'd be booked at the salon and the plastic surgeon in short order as a result of my neurosis.
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