Men I’ve Met at Corners
Corner (Noun): a place or angle where two or more sides or edges meet.
The Distracted Flatterer | He was standing at the corner of Colorado and 16th Street, a cellphone pressed to his ear and a look on his face I didn't understand.
“Yeah man, I’m at the corner of Colorado and 16th Street. Can you see me?”
I couldn't help but wonder where the other end of the line was. Colorado is a quiet street, only occasionally interrupted by a passing car or a barking dog. That night there wasn't a single headlight or hound, just me unwinding my earbuds and that man on his phone. As I walked past him and into the street I pushed the little white buds into my ears. He glanced at me then looked up the street again.
“Do you see the beautiful girl in a red shirt crossing the street?” he said to the opening plucks of a 2Cellos cover of Hurt.
No sober stranger has ever called me beautiful and meant it.
I kept walking. He didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t feel the burn of his eyes on my back. I think he was content to search for his invisible friend and let me wander off into the darkness.
The Metro Drunk | “This your boyfriend?” the man slurred.
The train chimed and the doors closed. A couple slid into the booth across from me. Their drunk follower fell into another booth as the train jerked forward. Temporarily trapped together inside the 11:50 Yellow to Huntington, I shared a glance with the girl. We both weakly smiled, the bond of a gender seemingly always under siege.
“You are sooooooooooooooooo beautiful baby,” the drunk said. He didn’t notice me, sitting directly across from him in a fuchsia dress. It’s the dress I wear when I want attention.
Avoiding a classic macho claiming tactic, the boyfriend refrained from putting his arm around his girlfriend. Instead he tried to start a conversation with the drunk man.
Nice jersey, you see the game tonight? Where you headed, bro?
The drunk continued to try to talk to the girl but the boyfriend distracted him without getting too defensive. The couple bailed at the next stop and the man followed. I hoped they’d lose him in the press at Metro Center.
The Man in the Lobby | There’s a man who sits in the lobby of my apartment building. I don’t know his name, but I think it’s Pierre. I have no reason for thinking his name is Pierre, but even strangers need names.
Every morning when I leave for work I pass Pierre. Sometimes he’s inside on the bench, sometimes he’s outside on the bench. He’s usually smoking and often he’s wearing a floor-length robe, striped like a circus tent. When I pass by I can almost feel the air wheezing out of his half-open mouth. Sometimes I think I smell the sticky sick of cigarettes long after I’ve turned the corner.
Sometimes Pierre is still there when I get home. I wonder if he remembers me. He can’t possibly. I am one of two dozen women walking out those doors each morning in a dress, flats, ID badge gently swaying as I walk, earbuds leaking music. Pierre, on the other hand, is unique.
His eyes have an eerie weight to them, like he’s trying to figure out what I am but cannot even fathom where to start. I never look back.
The Sign Spinner | On weekends at the corner of Columbia and Courthouse, there is a man with a giant arrow sign roaring “DOMINION TOWERS” in black text. He spins it so fast the words are probably illegible to drivers, but around and around it goes.
He’s always got earbuds in when I pass by on my way to the store, usually I do too. Even though I approach him from behind he always stops spinning the sign to share the corner with me while I wait for the light to change.
We never speak.
He’s always still there when I walk back up the hill, arms burdened with groceries. Like before, he stops spinning the sign and we share a smile, a nod, and a corner, for a few seconds.
Once I pass the sign spinning resumes. I look back and think I should ask him his name but I never do it.
The Catcalling Bros | I was walking down Massachusetts Avenue with two friends on our way to a rooftop for burgers and beers and a blissfully beautiful sunset. As we approached a towering apartment building, a cadre of men wearing white t-shirts with ironed-on flags of the Five Eyes were attempting to get hit by cars.
The Five Eyes refers to an intelligence-sharing alliance between the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, New Zealand and Australia.
The boys picked the wrong street to play kickball in. Maybe because the five of them were sharing the same single intelligence.
As Canada and New Zealand dodged cars chasing their red ball, the other three leaned on a jersey barrier. They stood up as we approached, stalking toward the street.
“Erg,” the man with us muttered as the boys sauntered toward us, their gaits screaming imminent catcall, incoming douchbaggery.
“Hey, you look…. athletic…”
I kept my eyes straight and did not react. Once we hit the corner the other girl and I finally made eye contact. We gave each other a quick up-down appraisal and immediately started laughing.
“Athletic?” I choked out, looking down at my work dress.
We left the failed catcallers behind us.
