Outrageous, bold and deadly…no wonder the media loves it. Every single time I turn on the TV or glance at Google News, I catch the latest development in the saga of Jennifer and George Hyatte, the outlaw married couple whose adventurous last few days read like a gangsta rap wet dream.

A US inmate has escaped after his wife shot dead a guard who was escorting the prisoner outside a courthouse in the state of Tennessee, authorities say.
Police say George and Jennifer Hyatte fled the scene in Kingston in a vehicle which was later found abandoned.
A hunt is under way for the former prison nurse and the escapee, who is described as “extremely violent”.

After that daring escape, the terrible twosome was on the run; they headed to Ohio (said, A, O, way to go Ohio) and got in a cab with one deliciously skeptical Mike Wagers. Wagers, their driver, made small talk that would later lead to a dramatic capture:

“The cover story they gave me didn’t really seem to wash too much,” Wagers told The Early Show co-anchor Harry Smith Thursday. “I mean, I could kinda see through that. But I had no indication that these guys were really dangerous or they were on the run.”
They claimed they were heading to a sales conference of Amway, the household goods manufacturer. But, says Wagers, “They didn’t strike me as the Amway type, because, to be honest, they weren’t very pushy about their product. And I’ve dealt with (Amway salespeople) before. So that was my only real suspicion.

Genius.

What about you? Have you enjoyed the fervent courtship of an Amway-ite? I know they’re everywhere but I was never approached, annoyed or harassed until I moved back to DC this year.

It started near the Pentagon. I had returned to my second hometown for a wedding, but ended up extending my ticket because I was enjoying myself. The only problem? I had flown here in mid-Autumn. When it was still “nice”. I came with one suitcase, filled with Kanchipuram and pajamas, since theoretically I’d always either be at some wedding function OR I’d be sleeping. Silly me, I didn’t bring a coat.

On one memorable weekend jaunt to Costco, I couldn’t take the shivering any longer, so I wandered over to the other side of Pentagon Centre, to the closest clothing store. Mindlessly, I tried on jackets, fiddling with zippers, testing hoods, debating choices in front of the full length mirror.

“That one is nice,” a very timid, sweet voice commented.

I turned around to find a petite, pottu-wearing, curly-tressed South Indian woman with a stroller. I thanked her and thought about buying the coat she had complimented, since I was in a hurry to get out of there. I smiled past my reflection in the mirror, at the pure and virtuous picture she presented. She was rocking the stroller back and forth behind me and she looked hesitant. My heart started to melt. Had it been difficult for her to approach me? She was so quiet, I was shocked that she had randomly said anything to a stranger, even if it was a brown one. It just didn’t seem consistent with her demure image; she was the exact opposite of scenery-masticating me.

I took the coat off and started to walk away, on my way to the registers.

“Escuse me, are you from India?”

I whirled around and smiled again. I actually hate that question, but she was too nice to hate on…”My parents were from Kerala. And you?”

“Oh, I am from Chennai!” she replied eagerly. It was clear that I wasn’t going to be leaving the store anytime soon, especially after she blurted out how she’s new to the DC area and didn’t know anyone. The story just kept yanking on my elastic heart strings; she was younger than me, away from her family, a new mother, friendless and intimidated by swamp city—a place I have always maintained is ruder than NYC, but that’s another post—I was totally her bitch by the time she finished expelling her breathless tale.

When she asked me if I’d like to come to dinner sometime, I did that bizarre internal double-take where I immediately knew that if this person weren’t South Asian, I wouldn’t even consider it. I didn’t have the time to get in to an examination of my personal biases so I told her “maybe” and resolved to debate myself later, when I wasn’t rushing around with a to-do list.

“Oh, but you MUST come to our home!” a voice boomed, from somewhere near Junior Sportswear. It was a man, obviously husband and father to the two I had been gazing at for the last few minutes. He introduced himself as Hari and said that he had overheard me say that I was Mallu. “And…what is it that you do?”

I laughed nervously. This was my one-year sabbatical (a concept that no Brown adult besides my saintly mother grasped) and I hated that question, too. “I’m in town for the week…I work at Scores,” I replied mischievously. I had guessed that he wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what that meant, from the lack of recognition on his face, I was right.

“Uh, okay. Well, are you interested in increasing your income? I own a business and I’m trying to hire a few people. My wife seems to really like you, so you’re probably a great candidate!”

He handed me a very boring business card that told me nothing besides his full name and cell-phone number. I disregarded the “holdings”, “limited” and other nonsense.

I was starting to get uncomfortable; my friends would undoubtedly be wondering where the hell I’d wandered off to and something about his card and demeanor was making my spider sense tingle.

“THERE you are, ANNA!”

Startled, I turned around to see one of my friends. He looked at the couple oddly and then stared at me with a gaze so meaningful, I knew something was up, I just wished I knew WHAT.

“We’re leaving, now. We’ve been waiting for you, let’s go. She has to go.”

“But…my…coat?”

“No time, we’re late.” And with that, the outerwear was snatched out of my hand, its hanger hooked haphazardly on a display that showed off J.Lo separates.

“Nice…meeting you!” I called out, as I was unceremoniously yanked out of the store.

Once outside, I demanded an explanation.

“They weren’t being social, TRUST ME. They’re probably doing some Multi-level Marketing crap…anyway, if you knew how much trouble I just saved you from, you’d be thanking me.”

Um, okay. Whatever.

Back into Costco I strolled, still shivering. I temporarily forgot my goose flesh and became transfixed by the Chanel bag that was locked in the display case near the front. I’ve been to Costco stores in four states and NO other location carries Chanel purses, for Coco’s sake. The D.C. Costco must be respected, y’all.

“Are you from India?”

What the-?

A South Asian man was smiling at me. He told me that his name was Sanjay, he was from India and that he lived in the area.

“What do you do?” Sanjay asked.

“Oh, are you KIDDING ME?” it was my erstwhile Kshatriya in shining armor (if by armor we mean Paper, Denim and Cloth). Sanjay was suddenly very excited.

“Hello, are you from India too?” he started to reach for his business cards.

“No,” my friend snapped. “I’m from the United States of AMWAY SUCKS.”
I started to walk away and I didn’t turn around as Sanjay’s voice grew more desperate, louder.

“You don’t know what you’re missing—extra income! You should judge for yourself by meeting with me!”

Somewhere in the bakery, when we had successfully put the entire store between us and Pushy McPusherson, my exasperated friend turned to me and said, “Twice. In less than twenty minutes. It’s unbelievable, like they can smell you or something. You HAVE to stop talking to these people.”

I was still too befuddled by the insanity of the past hour to really listen to him. I couldn’t stop pondering this new truth that my mind refused to wrap around—“Brown people sell Amway?”

:+:

Apparently, they do. While browsing around today, I learned that the blogger behind Instant Kaapi (don’t you just lurve the name?) Hemanth has walked in my shoes, and unlike awkward, stumbling me, baby, he can strut:

What are the chances of you being approached by fellow Indians with a ‘Business proposition’ at a Barnes & Noble or a Borders Bookstore, five times in a day! I would say pretty good

Hemanth’s post, When you hate “earning extra Money”! has the best suggestion that I’ve ever encountered for dealing with these uncomfy situations:

X: Anyway hemanth, I would love to be in touch with a Business man like you. Can I have your phone number and email?
I offer a smile, ask him for a pen and a piece of paper, write down the Phone Number and the Email ID from the Card he just handed over to me, on a piece of paper and exit the Store.

Genius.