Today I was reading Hamlet at the public library. I was minding my own business, trudging through Act I, when I was abruptly addressed by this 26-year-old black male.
"Hey beautiful. Are ya studyin’?" "Uh, hello, yes I am", I replied. "That’s what’s up! Shakespeare…. ooof", he piped, "I love him! ‘I think/therefore I am/I think/I am The Man’. Heh heh, I made that up", he chuckled at his thought-to-be slickness. He frequently eyed my wallet lying on the table nex to him. I giggled uneasily to his joke, holding back a hostile, "DESCARTE SAID THAT, YOU LIBRARY HUSTLING DEGENERATE."
"So where you goin’ to schoo’?" Oh, Christ. "I’m actually still in high school…. and I am reading this for my English class." He drew back and sank in this look of terror, shoulders not as broad as when he first sauntered in with his mating call. His eyes shrivled up in the similar fashion that his puckering lips took, and he let out an embarrassed, "wheeeeew".
His pride was quickly repleted as he came back, lanky and poised: “ya know, it’s crazy these days— young girls lookin’ olda’, olda’ girls lookin’ younga’. A lotta people think I’m olda’ than I really am. I used to have this beard outta here,” he said as he petted his phantom facial hair in reminiscence, “that made me look a lot olda’ than twenty-six. Well, anyway, I’ll let ya get yo’ study on.” He strolled off with sagging pants, black boots with frayed laces and a unistrap pack over his shoulder. He mounted the first step towards the second level of the library and echoed an incidental “Godspeed!”