PATRICK STEPHENSON

Earthbound concerns of an ascendant adult

Connie Thinks I Want to See Her Naked

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(The subject of this post deserves a certain derogatory term, ‘c’ its first letter, applied to her. Ignorant of her name, I’ve assigned her another: CONNIE. Remain cognizant of Connie’s allusory quality as you read.)

Connie—who lives in the building beside ours, in a basement-level apartment that faces our side yard—is convinced I’ve peeped through her window on two occasions. This afternoon [Saturday, 3pm—30 minutes before my cousin Aubrey’s championship lacrosse game] as I crossed the street in front of my building, I saw Connie awkwardly conversing with my mom. Meanwhile, my Nan sat waiting in our VW Bug. “Do you know who owns this car?” Connie had, before my arrival, apparently asked Mom, pointing at my and my sister’s car across the street. “Do you know anyone who lives in this building?” Much tension was evident as I approached, and Connie said, “Here is the gentleman now.” “What’s wrong?” I said. “This woman has something to ask you,” said my mom, addressing me.

“This is my son,” she said, addressing Connie. “I own this building.”

Connie—frail short Connie, her face red-noséd, her posture unstable—began her tirade, contra me. I don’t remember Connie’s words exactly, but here is the gist. Her delivery of this was shaky and unconvincing. On two occasions, the first at 7am one morning around two months ago, the second at 1pm one afternoon a few weeks ago, Connie has called the cops on me. That is, on someone she assumed was me, and because she knows which car we drive, she’s obviously tracked me ever since. “You,” she said, “were standing outside my window, doing who knows what, looking in at me. With good reason, I asked you what you were doing there. You didn’t say anything. I said, I’m going to call the cops. You swore at me and sped away on your bike.”

With that, shell-shocked because you don’t expect such accusations, I was like, “WHAT?! I would never do that.” Replied Connie, “You match the description. I’ve seen you on your bike.” “What color is the bike?” I said. “Royal blue,” she said. My bike is blue, though I don’t know if I’d apply ‘royal’ as well. “When did this take place?” “Recently,” she said. “At 7am a few months ago.” That alone was laughable. Most days, there’s no way I’d be up at 7am, let alone riding my bike and stopping to peep through Connie’s window. I said so.

“The part I most disbelieve is the swearing,” I said next. “I never, or hardly ever, swear.” “That’s what the man mowing the lawn said to me after he swore at me,” she mumbled. Connie, I realized, is insane. The lawnmowing man would’ve been G., who—despite his Republicanism and the gun at his hip—is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and would never swear at Connie for any reason. “You’re crazy,” I said. “I don’t have to listen to this.” We were standing in the middle of the street. As I walked around to the passenger side of our car, Connie said, “See! See! He’s trying to get away, because he did this.”

Throughout, my mom and my nan professed my goodness. “He is a good person, that doesn’t sound anything like him,” etc. Connie was unswayed. I walked angrily back around our car. “I don’t like being intimidated,” said Connie. She began to back away toward her building. I wasn’t trying to intimidate her. “You’re wrong,” I said. “You’re insane.” “There’ve been peepers in the neighborhood lately,” said Connie, still backing away. “I read a report of one in THE VILLAGER,” some local paper. For some reason, I tried to reason with her again: “I’m not the sort of person to do that, okay? I’ve worked as a security guard. At one point I thought about being a cop [sort of true, maybe not really].” By that point, saying, “okay,” Connie had practically escaped. We got into the car, and through the open window I said, “What a WEIRDO,” loud enough for her to hear as she scampered into her building.

So, now I know who—a few weeks ago—called 911 on me, and now I know why. That afternoon, I took the back way, through our yard, up into our parking lot. I had my new black helmet on. My bike in the garage, I went inside and sat down at my computer. Minutes passed. I saw some guy passing beneath the window to my left. As he passed he looked up at me. I stood and looked out. A cop car in my lot. I walked around to our back door, opened it to talk with the cop. He was pleasant, and explained that maybe someone had just not recognized me as I rode my bike up across the grass. A misunderstanding, he said. “Probably,” I said, “it’s because of my new helmet. It made me unrecognizable.” The cop agreed.

Around 8pm tonight, I watched First Blood and knew how John Rambo felt as Brian Dennehy and the redneck police crew roughed him up. I can’t believe this happened in front of my mother and grandmother. I’m embarrassed.

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Written by patiomensch

May 20, 2007 at 2:48 am

Posted in Crazy Connie, Personal

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  1. […] Crazy Connie Strikes Again Jump to Comments [Strikes 1 and 2] […]


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