Second episode from the life of the reluctant dog-keeper:
“This is advice that my mother gave me and it works: no one wants to deal with crazy. Pass it on to all the women you know.
I actually tested it and it probably saved me a lot of grief.
So I was going home one night, a little late, and had to pass through Gorlitzer Park, where, for some reason, the city has allowed all the small-time dealers to congregate on the short route across the breadth of the park.
There were three of them and they tried to encircle me, asking me what I was carrying, to hand over my bag, etc. And luckily, I remembered my mother’s advice. I mean, I don’t think they would have killed me or raped me – they were most likely refugees or sans-papiers and would not want to get into that kind of trouble. But they might very well have hurt me.
So, I was glad I remembered my mother’s advice. I flipped freaking out. I mean, I just started backing up, one hand in my hand-bag, shrieking at them at the top of my voice that I was just dying for them to give me a reason to use my gun, that I was from Texas and that I’d done it before and that I’d enjoyed it.
I dared them and I just went all out.”
“There was this energy that was in me that was flowing out and it just hit them. I think it literally scared the hell out of them. I mean, I really, [fucking] freaked them out!” she mimes the f word as, by this time, there are customers in the shop, browsing through the prints.
Later, around closing time, she drew down the blinds and re-enacted a “lite” version for me: much lower volume, much shorter performance. And in those few seconds, she became the embodiment of the crazy, psychotic bitch you’d run a mile to avoid. Respect.
Then, in the blink of an eye, it was all gone and she was standing before me, as serene and friendly as before she had summoned up her demons.
She’s one person who doesn’t need to attend a workshop on street theatre! One could actually take lessons from her! Like totally, man.