lornamatic

So tonight I was leaving my figure drawing class, walking back to the garage I parked at. I stopped at a crosswalk, and waited for the light (some of you may remember that the last time I crossed against a light in Westwood ultimately resulted in a warrant issued for my arrest). While I waited, the one other person on the corner stared, a little too long, and said “How you doin?”

Normally, hey, it’s a fun thing to get checked out on the UCLA campus. I’m of the age where I get excited if I get carded, so getting chatted up by someone at a college - that should be the ultimate compliment.

Except, this particular someone was really just awfully… creepy. And this sort of thing is always more flattering when you happen to have taken some care with your appearance or whatever. Coming out of a drawing class, covered with a fine layer of charcoal grit, wearing drawing clothes - I suppose it’s safe to say I immediately distrusted the friendly gesture.

The light changed. I wound my way through the gridlocked traffic, extra conscious of my personal space. My new friend made his way right behind me.

So the rule everyone should know, is if you think you’re being followed, change your course or cross the street. If your follower keeps on his original course, well, maybe you were being paranoid, but better safe than sorry. If your follower keeps following you, you have a problem. Now you have to come up with something more creative than bringing him back to your car in an isolated parking garage.

So you find the most public spot you can. A store, better, a coffee shop. At this point, you can let the staff know, or call the police if you’re really concerned for your safety.

So I walked a little way past a Starbucks on the corner. I made an abrupt turn, and walked back into the Starbucks. Guess who was still right behind me?

I got in line. He got in line. Maybe he thought he recognized me from somewhere - that happens from time to time in a city as big as LA. Maybe he just has a thing for chicks covered in carbon dust. Maybe he just abruptly wanted coffee. Either way, I don’t know him, and I am tired of this game. He isn’t obviously dirty or psychotic, and he hasn’t creeped me out to the point where I feel threatened, yet - he flipped the Friendly Neighborhood Proselytizer switch long before the Psycho Stalker Killer switch, but I’m defintely keeping a close watch on him.

It’s my turn. The barista asks what I’d like. I politely say, “Oh, I’m still deciding, ” and gesturing to my new friend, I suggest she should ask the next person in line.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

He stutters, unprepared for the question. “Uhhhhhh… ahhh….. a coffee?”

The barista springs into action, and while she keeps him busy with questions about blends and all those strange made-up Italian words for sizes, I quietly slip out the door. Digging in his pockets for some change to pay, he doesn’t see me leave.

I walk the two doors down to my garage, and get in the elevator, alone. Lots of people despise the Starbucks business practice of colonizing every other city block, but it’s nice to have them there when you need it.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 1st, 2005 at 7:49 pm and is filed under Los Angeles, Miscellany. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.