Scene: Late afternoon at a Lake St bus stop in midtown Mpls. A man, dressed in clothing that one could assume denotes white collar employment, waits. He's reading Gawker on his phone, but mostly just using it as a prop to avoid unnecessary social engagement with fellow denizens of the sidewalk; not out of a false sense of superiority or misanthropy, but the years of experience have proven time and again that this is often the best plan after a crappy day of work when he doesn't have the energy or inclination to speak to anybody else. Unseen by the man, a woman crosses the street in busy traffic, holding up several cars. The honking gets the man's attention. As he looks up, the woman locks eyes with him.

- You want any boobies?

No, thanks though.

-You don't want these titties?!


-Well why not?

Look, there are 150,000 guys in this city, I'm sure one of them will be interested, but I'm not.

-You a faggot?

...I'm not interested, move it along sister.

-What did you say?


-Why you yelling at me? That's assault, motherfucker! I'm calling 911!

The woman calls 911 and describes the assault to the, presumably incredulous, operator. The bus arrives and the man boards, hopefully leaving this bewildering scene behind, but the woman also boards the bus, still on the phone with 911, loudly describing in increasingly angry tones the nature and extent of the man's crimes against her person. The woman departs the bus a few stops later, apparently satisfied that the man will at some point be dragged off the bus and shot whenever the cops get around to it.


This is the second time something like this has happened. The man begins to wonder what exactly it is about his appearance that would suggest to a seasoned professional that he would likely be a prospective customer for daytime streetwalking prostitutes. The man doesn't judge these women, he just wants to be left alone.