A few hours ago, when I left my new apartment for dinner at Heritage India (Connecticut Ave), rain was escaping the night sky with such fury and speed, my golf umbrella was barely adequate and my mukluks were soaked. They are lined with sheepskin, which is now wet and disgusting. My toes are miserable. I’m barely cognizant of this though, because I’m on the phone, having the most important conversation of my day. I’m so involved with this voice, I barely notice the mile which I’ve walked uphill, the road I’ve made a right turn on, the periodic hordes of people on Adams Morgan’s 18th street, on this dead-because-it’s-wet-and-miserable night.

I should be at my new home, snuggled in my, um, Aerobed, but I have no internet access yet, so Tryst (a much-loved haunt of our Manish’s) has gone from third-place to first place in my life, for the moment. I don’t want to go inside and be the idiot on her cell phone though, so I’m hunched over my umbrella handle while I shiver mindlessly right outside the giant picture window, directly across from “my table”; practically on the sidewalk, it’s close to an electrical outlet and the perfect size for one. It’s also almost exactly where I sit when I’m at Greco. Some call me boring, I prefer consistent.

I’m in the middle of responding to a worrisome revelation when a group of frat-tastic retards lurches past, reeking of sweat and bad alcohol. I’m less vexed by such roving stupidity than some of my friends, mostly because unlike them, I was “Greek” and thus constantly around similar. I turn away from them slightly as they stagger by, wishing Maisnon were here; one of the last times we were together in the Morg, I was grabbed so violently, you could see marks the next day. Well before THAT sickening reminder of ickiness manifested itself in my flesh, our girl became Our Lady of Terrifying Rage. Approximately two minutes after Filthy McNastyman’s fingers defiled my arm, she accosted the pulayadi mon who startled and then offended me. “You do NOT do that”, she ranted, right in his face, as his innards liquefied in the face of her wrath. Ah, good times. But why was I thinking these thoughts? I had no need for such big guns. Nothing was going to happen to me…

“Jewugingglut”

Wait, what? Immediately, I hit a mental rewind even as I strained to listen to the voice currently inhabiting my cell-phone. WAIT. OMG. No. He. Didn’t. I dropped the phone right then from ear to hip and shouted in to the bastard’s wake.

“What the hell did you just say to me??”

He turned back, the look on his face scaring me so much I think I whimpered for Deepa, my Mom and/or my ferocious, late German Shepherd Rani.

“I saaaaid, YOU FUCKING SLUT.” This opportunity I had given him to repeat misogynistic filth tickled his friends to no end; they laughed so hard at his courage and genius that they were choking. Two of them slapped him on the back. Oh yeah. You showed me!

The toxic disrespect in his eyes had made my blood go cold, now I felt like I was being microwaved. Shaking replaced shivering, livid indignation supplanting any discomfort with weather. Without pondering or hesitating, I yelled back a suggestion for what he could do with himself, but I felt impotent, despite it. It was painful. If I hadn’t said anything, I would’ve felt steamrolled by him and undone by regret; I did say something and what came next made it all so much worse.

“Fuck that slut.”

“Nah, man. She’s Indian. They’re not sluts.”

“You would know.”

“Hey did that bitch taste like curry when you ate her?”

I obviously don’t know what sort of taste had been left in his mouth at the past point these Neanderthals were referencing, but I knew what the acrid sensation in my mouth meant.

“What just happened? Whom were you shouting at? Where are you? Is it safe?”

“Some guy…just called me “slut”. Twice. I didn’t feel like accepting it, so…anyway I’m in Adams Morgan, in front of Tryst. And no, in some ways I do not feel safe.”

“Some stranger just walked by and called you such a name?”

“Yeah. This day gets better by the MINUTE. I hate this neighborhood. Or, more accurately, the type of entirely-challenged jackass it attracts.”

I try and remind the person I’m conversing with what we were talking about, because they had been in the middle of relating something important; I barely manage to do this effectively. I can’t stop considering pepper spray. Or German Shepherds.

Words flow again via a battered Sprint Samsung and mercifully, within seconds, I am immersed. I am not thinking of racist assholes or how they hate my gender. I am listening too mindfully for such torment. Which is why I don’t notice the man with dreads in the Coogi sweater who is suddenly in my face.

“Excuse me, sweetheart, I’m not tryin’ to bother you, but what’s your name?”

I shake my head and smile politely, pointing to my cellphone with the hand which can barely balance my massive umbrella. I stupidly assume he’ll understand that I am otherwise involved and move on…I want to close my eyes so I can better focus on the voice and the rather important words which I have to hear. It’s a no-win situation; this call HAS to occur RIGHT NOW, when it’s suddenly (and much to my surprise) least convenient for me. I resist the desire to let my eyelids fall because more men are headed my way and I’m starting to feel vulnerable. Can I get a hearty WTF? I’m not dressed up or done up. I can’t remember if I applied deodorant today, it’s been so hectic with errands, appointments and attempts at unpacking. I’m not polished, I’m drenched. And I’m not smiling, I’m frowning. What about ANY of that invites such stubborn attempts at interaction?

“Sweetheart. Sweetheart. I’m tryin’ to tawk to you.”

“I understand that, but I can’t talk right now, I’m really sorry.”

“Well, maybe you can just keep me warm under that big ole umbrella of yours.” He moves in closer as he says this, until he’s touching me. I’m slightly cornered and I instantly want to bolt.

“I’m sorry, I’m not interested. I’m on the phone. WITH MY BF.”

Blatant lie, but so is the apology. May I please have another order of WTF? Why am I the one saying “sorry”?

“Well, tell your man that I ain’t tryin’ to fuck ya, I’m just attemptin’ to holla at his girl.”

More laughter from the pea-brained gallery and the voice on the other end is concomitantly appalled and concerned about my location and my odds.

I’m about to state a definitive “leave me alone” when just as quickly as Coogi and Co. came, they’re off. The sigh I heave is so audible, it freaks out a random dog being walked four feet away.

“I’m fine, wait, what was I saying? No, wait, what were YOU saying? I’m so sorry about this…”

“Excuse me miss, can you keep me dry?”

OH MY GOD. WHY? WHY!

“No. No, I cannot keep you dry. Please go away, I am on the phone.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to hurt you, I’m just tryin’ to get under that umbrella.”

I want to heave this luxurious, sturdy behemoth in to the nearest public trash can. Or pretend it’s a spear and lob it through a neck, any neck of any man who has harassed me in the last 20 minutes.

“I’m talking to my boyfriend. I just want to talk to my boyfriend. Please leave me alone. It’s not even really raining anymore.”

I have no idea why I toss in that last bit of dilettante meteorology or more relevantly, why this umbrella has been the instrument of my doom and then—

“Your boyfriend, huh? What is he, white?”

“I don’t see how this is any of your business, but my (entirely non-existant) boyfriend is Indian.”

“What you couldn’t find an Ethiopian? Bitch.”

I can’t win.

Did I actually, stupidly complain about invisibility last week? I’m so sorry. No, really, this time, I am. If they can’t see me, they can’t say unpleasant things to me…right?