Tuesday, February 11, 2020

I Fear Molestation

The Big City
Part 11 of 28

There’s nothing funny about the fear of molestation. As far as bad-ass crimes go, it’s classified with the hardest to overcome. Just the thought of it gives us the shakes. In part thanks to our upbringing, but of course thanks to our instincts for survival and avoiding pain; we know it has to be a bastard. And it's not just in the Big City, but the same fears are in the small town -- because anyone could jump out and do something and then it’s done. But the Big City has it over the small town, usually, because the threat’s always there, one molester after another.

My usual thought about everything is 'I’ll be OK.' Which I’m reluctant to sketch out, because it'll certainly put me in a bad light for being at my most calculating: ‘Please, if you're going to molest someone, take the next guy, but let an old burnt-out cinder like me pass.’ This is actually one of the glories of old age. By comparison, I am a has-been cinder, burnt out, too old to cut the mustard, and if anyone has choices to make, I’m obviously good for nothing and a reluctant last resort, like if you’re a molester and you’re dying and you simply have to fit in one more before arriving in Hell.

The wrench in the machine, though, is we have to go by the Big City standard. So you could be as old as the hills like me, and crustier than I ever expect to be, and if the perp is hopped up on the wrong combination of uppers, downers, and neutral substances -- vegging out can also put you in this frame of mind -- any creature would be susceptible to victimization. As unbelievable as it is, there’s still the possibility the molester would want me. I'd certainly be good enough if he were already delirious or in the death throes.

The main thing is, whatever it is, to be ready, and that’s why an in depth study of the Big City is so critical. Literally everywhere you go there's someone else you don’t know. Big, little, ugly, uglier. Demented, senseless, wasted, hopeless, ready for anything, rolling up a score, in some jaded state getting it on because he's not himself, and if he were it might be worse.

I'm presenting some good teachable moments in the graphic, which boils down to your stance. “I stand before you hopelessly inexperienced, a virtual innocent, never having pleased a single soul, more often than not given to uselessness, and if the truth be told, if you’re after me, it's bad news, because you’ve fallen low, you have no standards. What a remarkable past you may have had, that even this late in your life -- don’t think of yourself as a has-been, more like still a great person, only confused -- you have the ambition for socializing, but with what? A limp rag like me? You could stand here and do better in mere minutes and be proud of yourself, rather than lower yourself to my level -- a guy not proud but a loser."

OK, somehow I escaped that dreadful fate. But the Big City’s not always so easily swayed. You might have a strong self-image. Get rid of it. It’s better if you look like disease on two wobbly feet, if you want to escape, get on with your life, and share your favors elsewhere in a more gratifying, consensual way.

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