Disclaimer: I'm going to be perfectly frank. I've been dreading writing this diary. It begs and pleads to be written, and there is no more avoiding it; however, I am moving forward with contempt and a formidable pout. It is a fantastic tale, and I doubt very much that it is finished. That being said, I begin the laborious process of trying to do it justice - for good or ill. In all honesty, I do think that it might be impossible to correctly recount and describe, simply because it is so bizarre and I doubt that it's eccentricities could be fully encompassed by any lexicon. Yet, it is for moments such as these that the Metro Transit Diaries exist. So here goes...Sighting #1: A Silent Introduction
After the Pier 1 disaster, I acquired gainful employment as an office peon in a ridiculously posh corporate suite way out in the southern 'burb, Edina. I assumed that life on the transit lines was about to get pretty bland, and for the most part I was right. I generally catch the 6E at 8:40 a.m., and come back on the 6 or 6U whenever I can escape without incurring too many negative consequences, generally shortly after 5:00 p.m. Therefore, I'm basically surrounded by other business-types, going to their daily 9-5s, sipping their Starbucks, and staring in a glazed-eye groggy fashion at the morning paper. While it's not threatening, it doesn't make for very entertaining writing. There is a rather talkative old coot that won't ever leave me alone, but he's harmless. He often talks about the internet and his cats. I assume he is exceedingly
lonely. Luckily enough for me, he almost exclusively takes the 8:20 6E - so I don't have to deal with him too often.
This is my work week. Same bat faces, same bat bus-line. That is, it was
my work week until two weeks ago when the Pierced Pirate-Hooker got on the bus at Southdale on the ride home. Immediately when she hobbled her way onboard, my mind came to a screetching halt and refused to budge from the conclusion that I had met the modern, female version of Queequeg. Before I could resist, my brain began to call forth images and long-since forgotten passages out from its murky depths like blurry reflections; the only shattered remnants left behind by that abhorrent torture device known as Moby Dick
, and it would not
be distracted or dissuaded from the topic or the perceived visual association sitting directly in front of me. She had scraggly, unkempt blonde-grey hair and face full of piercings. In fact, she has almost every facial piercing known to civilized man. The total is as follows:
- Three labrets
- A couple lowbrets
- A pair of Marylin Monroes
- A pair of cheek piercings
- A septum
- Right nostril
- Left eyebrow
- Far too many piercings on her ears to even begin to count. I was shocked that they hadn't fallen off due to the weight of all the dull metal.
From the sceptum down her face was very symmetrical. The entire portrait was just confounding. I confess, I was very grateful to have been wearing my sunglasses - as they allowed me the ability to undertake a covert staring operation. It may be rude, but in the interest of science and sociology, it had to be done.
The piercings were just the beginning. Down the left side of her neck was a green blob that had once been a tattoo. Upon noticing it, I pulled my eyes back into focus and took in the whole picture. She has tattoos at random intervals on her arms and legs, most of which are indiscernible. Yet, it didn't stop there. Some of you are probably wondering where the "Pirate-Hooker" comes in. I mean, all things considered, by this point she could have been a hardcore goth in her prime, or perhaps even an extreme rocker. In the end, it all comes down to the clothes, my friends.
Her wardrobe consisted of an off-the-shoulders, black, and transparent
top that was equipped with a fluffy poof just below the shoulders, and tight sleeves down to the elbow where they ruffled and belled out creating an effect that I assume could only be generated by breeding a medieval sleeve with a frilly cravat. Did I mention the entire shirt was see-through, leaving a glimpse of a very harassed looking black brassiere? Yeeaaaah.
Yet, somehow her skirt was even more shocking as it was most definitely a pleather skirt that had been slashed and ripped down to miniskirt length. It looked as though it had been hung out to dry atop a mast in a 10-force gale
. Even her accessories were both pirate-ish and trashy. Around her neck hung a skull and crossbones necklace, and her fingers were adorned with large gaudy rings of varying metal and design. Her feet were gracing a pair of rhine-stoned, black thong-sandals.
I was so astounded, I could hardly notice anything else. I think what shook me the most was the fact that she was elderly
. I consider myself a pretty open-minded person, and I'm not trying to say that she should not dress how she likes; although, 67-year-old-plus in a see-through shirt and tight pleather almost-miniskirt is a titch nauseating, especially when juxtaposed with the myriad of crisscrossing wrinkles on her face already threatening to devour her various metal appendages. Honestly, it's just a first for me. I was fascinated. So involved, in fact, that while I was taking all of this in (and engaging in a fierce literary battle with my memory whilst trying to remember if Herman Melville's Queequeg was tattooed and
pierced or merely tattooed), I hardly noticed that only three stops after her arrival - she had already gotten off. Suddenly, I found myself staring at the seat she formerly occupied. Quickly I looked around to see her standing on the corner (go figure) and shrinking into the distance.
This woman is an enigma. Thankfully, this was not our last and only encounter. Tune in next time for another Pirate-Hooker encounter! Same bat time, same bat channel. Batten down the hatches, y'all.