“Get away from that man!”
The woman’s voice pounded the walls of the Subway restaurant where I had been quietly eating my sandwich. Her kids had wandered over and begun talking to me for who knows what reason. I just nodded and went on chewing.
“Leave that man alone,” mama added. Of course she could have simply and soundlessly guided them back to her. But there she was in complete panic mode because her tots were talking to a stranger.
On a train, seated behind a loud woman spouting an obscenity-laced tirade on her cell, I found myself confronted by her pre-school daughter, who leaned over the top of the seat and began a conversation.
One-word responses and nods were all I cared to contribute. On a train you can’t change seats because your stub is stuck in the crease of the seat in front of you and changing would confuse and anger the conductor.
So I sat there, hoping this angry woman in front of me wouldn’t whirl and direct that vitriol toward a guy just trying to ignore her talkative daughter.
In a store I was standing behind a shopping cart containing a curly haired toddler seated facing me. She stared unblinking as her parents babbled away in some European language I couldn’t make out.
I looked away at the candy rack. When I looked back, the kid was still staring. I looked away again. I glanced down at her. The kid was still eyeballing me.
She saw me looking at the candy, grabbed a pack of Skittles and squeezed. Thankfully she bypassed the M&Ms. The guy behind me said, “Cute kid.”
I don’t know if he was talking to me or the parents, who were arguing with the cashier over a price. Luckily the child’s older brother did not eyeball me. I forced a smile and the girl looked away finally. Bored with me.
I just wish little kids would leave me alone. Don’t walk up to me and tell me about your day. Don’t poke me if you’re grabbing at something. Don’t hold onto me if you’re switching spots in the bleachers. And please don’t eyeball me without blinking the way kids do. Because nearby there is always some parent or guardian with a concealed weapon who is itching to put me in a coma for interacting with their precious progeny.
Did I mention kids who drip stuff on me, who suddenly change direction in the middle of the sidewalk and ram into my shins, who begin bawling if I raise my eyebrows?
Who hold up objects and expect me to approve or comment? I was never like that as a kid. Was I?
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com.