Fugitive Recovery Agent
by V.E. on May 12th, 2009
filed under personal, writing, wtf
I swear to God, truth is stranger than fiction.
On my way back to New York City from Lancaster yesterday, I wasn’t in the mood to play, but apparently, the world was in the mood to play with me.
I got on the downtown A train at 34th St. at around 5:30 pm and switched to the D at West 4th. While I was waiting for the transfer, a guy tried to get my number by claiming to be a “fugitive recovery agent”…
At first, I ignored him. It wasn’t that hard, because I was wearing headphones, and presumably, he had to speak over the train sounds and Casting Crowns, which were, at that time, blaring in my ears. No such luck that he’d just catch a hint and go away, of course.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said over the sound of the F train arriving across the tracks at the uptown platform, “you got a number I can have?”
“What? No, I don’t. I don’t have a phone,” I said, taking the earbuds out of my ears. (That ended up being a mistake because he took it as a sign that I was willing to listen to him.)
“I hardly believe that, honey,” (I hate it when guys who don’t know me call me pet names. HATE it.) “I’m a Fugitive Recovery Agent. I should have your number so I can protect you.”
“A fugitive recov—you’re an effing bounty hunter?” I was apparently somewhat less impressed than he was expecting… and apparently, no woman has ever known what a “fugitive recovery agent” is before he told her, so he was out his next line.
He fumbled before saying, “Yeah, well, that’s the layman’s term for it.” He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card, “Here’s my card in case you’re ever in trouble, sweetheart.”
I took the card and tossed it on the track in front of us without looking at it. “I’m not interested, thanks.” There were enough people around that I wasn’t afraid of him, and if worse came to worse, I could push him onto the track and be done with it.
“Aww, don’t be like that, sugar,” he said. The guy just didn’t want to give up: “Gimme your number and we’ll call it even.”
“I don’t owe you anything, and I’m not giving you my number.”
“Ah! So you do have a phone, then,” he crowed as if he’d caught me in some huge lie. I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself.
“Look, mister, I’m not interested, all right? Just let it go.”
“No one says ‘no’ to me, honey. I’m a bounty hunter.”
I think he was trying to sound threatening, but he just came off as pathetic, and I nearly laughed right in his face. “That’s nice. Go find someone with a bounty on his head. That’s not me.”
“Aww, sweetcheeks,” he said, “don’t y’wanna be mine?” I did laugh in his face that time.
“Not hardly.” My hair was standing up on the back of my neck by this time—enough pet names from someone I don’t know will do that to me—and I was seriously thinking about just kneeing the guy in the balls. I couldn’t be the first to make a move or I’d be the one in custody, if it came to that. Which I hoped to gods it didn’t.
He reached for me and I stepped back. “Gotcha on the run, now, do I?” he asked gleefully, “I do love the chase…”
I was (still) not impressed. “Drop it, man. You’re barking up the wrong tree here.” If he even thought about calling me “baby” I was gonna—
“C’mon, baby, don’t be such a bitch.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me in to do… to do something… but I never figured out what because I said, “Don’t you fucking touch me, you bastard” and kneed him right between the legs… and then the D train pulled up.
I left him in a crouch on the platform floor and stepped onto the train. The doors shut behind me and I was safe.
The guy next to me had apparently seen the whole thing. “Damn, you looked like you could’ve seriously taken him on back there. You weren’t playing around, were you?” He laughed.
“Well, I did kick him in the nuts, so…”
“Yeah, but I mean… remind me not to underestimate women.”
“Don’t underestimate women,” I said immediately. He laughed again. I settled back in the seat and put my earbuds back in.
