Today, I finished a book I'd always wanted to read but never did. (A murder in wheat country? Yawn, man.) But I got my hands on it here and couldn't not read it because it's fantastic. The author turned a two-paragraph news story into a 300-page masterpiece about a wealthy Kansas family killed on their farm by strangers; the town is beside itself. This is a true story.
I thought abut this story two weeks ago when the following happened.
There are too many children in the Monrovia school system so morning sessions end at noon and a different mass of children goes to school in the afternoon. I was sitting in my lifeless car at a gas station midday when a homeward-bound Liberian girl paused near the pumps and took out a notebook; I put my head on the steering wheel and waited for a mechanic to come. Then the girl knocked on my half-open window and threw a crumpled strip of paper at me. "I don't want this," I told her but she ignored me and continued down the road.
The note said, "I like you. Please call me. [Telephone number]."
What?!
I have been trying ever since to figure out what made her think I was a safe bet. I'm not the beefiest girl in the world but I could probably still kidnap a lanky school girl, right? I play squash now; I have tricks. But the girl saw me through my dirty windshield and decided that that was enough information. Maybe she'd seen me before or knew she'd see me again -- Monrovia, for all its one million people, is very, very small. It's that big-town vibe that makes people, once acquainted with things, let down their guard, sink into the dulling tropical heat, trust in the people they share these familiar corners with, and let their bags get stolen on a beach. I watched this happen to someone I know.
Growing up in New York can put you permanently on edge. It made me the kid who'd rather carry her parka around an Amherst party than leave it, undefended, behind a sofa with everyone else's. And Liberians have lived through many things, things you'd think would make a person extra cautious. But there I was, weighing a teenager's phone number in my hand; I eventually let the wind carry it away. (Have you seen To Catch a Predator? No thank you.)
A week later, I was in my parked car again, waiting for a friend. The excited attendees of a sunset church service were streaming out of the Christian Fellowship and someone knocked on my window.
"You remember me?"
"No."
"I gave you my number."
"For cryin' out loud..."
"Why you did not call me?"
"I don't call strangers."
She started saying something but I'd stopped listening and wished her a goodnight when I heard her pause. She walked away dejectedly.
Chick doesn't know this yet but the world is bigger than her well-tread grid from 12th Street to 9th. Villains find even isolated farmhouses in the middle of the night.
I thought abut this story two weeks ago when the following happened.
There are too many children in the Monrovia school system so morning sessions end at noon and a different mass of children goes to school in the afternoon. I was sitting in my lifeless car at a gas station midday when a homeward-bound Liberian girl paused near the pumps and took out a notebook; I put my head on the steering wheel and waited for a mechanic to come. Then the girl knocked on my half-open window and threw a crumpled strip of paper at me. "I don't want this," I told her but she ignored me and continued down the road.
The note said, "I like you. Please call me. [Telephone number]."
What?!
I have been trying ever since to figure out what made her think I was a safe bet. I'm not the beefiest girl in the world but I could probably still kidnap a lanky school girl, right? I play squash now; I have tricks. But the girl saw me through my dirty windshield and decided that that was enough information. Maybe she'd seen me before or knew she'd see me again -- Monrovia, for all its one million people, is very, very small. It's that big-town vibe that makes people, once acquainted with things, let down their guard, sink into the dulling tropical heat, trust in the people they share these familiar corners with, and let their bags get stolen on a beach. I watched this happen to someone I know.
Growing up in New York can put you permanently on edge. It made me the kid who'd rather carry her parka around an Amherst party than leave it, undefended, behind a sofa with everyone else's. And Liberians have lived through many things, things you'd think would make a person extra cautious. But there I was, weighing a teenager's phone number in my hand; I eventually let the wind carry it away. (Have you seen To Catch a Predator? No thank you.)
A week later, I was in my parked car again, waiting for a friend. The excited attendees of a sunset church service were streaming out of the Christian Fellowship and someone knocked on my window.
"You remember me?"
"No."
"I gave you my number."
"For cryin' out loud..."
"Why you did not call me?"
"I don't call strangers."
She started saying something but I'd stopped listening and wished her a goodnight when I heard her pause. She walked away dejectedly.
Chick doesn't know this yet but the world is bigger than her well-tread grid from 12th Street to 9th. Villains find even isolated farmhouses in the middle of the night.
2 comments:
Just an FYI, this post immediately sent me to my English class notebook in search of a particular gem. Stay tuned :)
:) I knew this would catch your eye.
Post a Comment