The Perils of Going Solo

There was a concert tonight at a park not far from where I live. I made plans with a coworker (Amra, if you’re following along with my coworkers) to go. I got there on time, waited at the designated location. Fifteen minutes go by. Thirty minutes go by. I called her up, can’t get a hold of her. Hour later, I get a text that she couldn’t find a parking spot and decided to turn around. “Forgot” to tell me sooner.

Now, that doesn’t really bother me so much. I get stood up (and I mean that in the most platonic way possible) quite a bit which, although not ideal, has helped me be a little more spontaneous when other opportunities present themselves. I am also a capable adult who can attend a concert on his own, which I did, settling myself under a tree not far from the bandstand.

What bothered me was that there were very many people, and while I am a capable adult who goes about his daily life like anyone else, that many people scare the shit out of me. In truth, what are they going to do to me? Nothing. I know that. But my self-consciousness skyrockets. And with someone else, I am able to keep myself focused on my company and my purpose. I never make plans to attend such a large event on my own because I know this about myself.

I also get treated better in company. With someone else, people tend to refrain from approaching me or saying anything to me. When alone however, the bad behaviors come out en force. I got the dirtiest looks from some aged woman sitting in a rusty lawn chair not far from me who felt the need to pull everyone in her party into a group huddle and when they broke, they stuck their heads up like meerkats and just STARED at me. I waved at them and that sent them back to their regularly scheduled programming. A group of teen-aged boys walked by me and shouted to me that I was a “sick fuck” among a couple other choice descriptors and towards the end of the concert, one of them actually kicked me in the back (while I was sitting beneath the tree) and then they ran off laughing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been physically attacked, but it does happen. I’m an easy target too since I look wiry, spry, and youthful, not big, beefy, or imposing, although I probably have almost two hundred pounds of muscle and ten years on them. Fortunately nothing more than my meager pride was wounded, not that there would have been much recourse anyway should it have been otherwise. But here, illustrated, is precisely why I try to keep company whenever I can. I think I’m having a few glasses of wine tonight.