Following on from the business of the bid-ness, my second (and last) trip on Savannah’s CAT shuttle was similarly eventful and, for want of a better word, character-driven.
It all began on a rainy day in December, when I wrapped my left foot in its super-cool plastic bag toe-protection rain-gear and caught the shuttle to Kroger. Assumedly because of the rain, the shuttle had only two other inhabitants, and these two men were thoroughly engaged in a discussion about the Bible. Or, rather, the man in front was narrating a story from the Bible to the man behind, who seemed to be having difficulty getting a word in edgeways.
After five minutes or so, the talking man turned to me. He was greatly interested in my having studied Sociology, which means I’ve met at least one person on my travels who thinks my degree is legitimate. It quickly became apparent that this man’s tendency to talk at rather than with people was not limited to chats about the Bible. As a result, I learnt that (according to this fellow) a priest once built a brick church in Africa that none of the Africans would attend because they only wanted to pray in huts, and that he himself no longer buys name-brand products because he recently had a change in fortunes and now knows that marketing and television are trying to control the world.
Then came the moment when he worked out I was travelling alone. Suddenly leaning forward in his chair, he stared at me unblinkingly and told me to “use my third eye”. I suppose my blank look tipped him off, for he asked if I knew what my third eye was. I answered in the negative.
Apparently, one’s third eye functions as a kind of spiritual awareness or insight into potential danger. I would posit, however, that it could also be called “common-sense”. Look, I have no problem with someone telling me to be safe. I appreciate it, even though I’m very much not a put-yourself-in-questionable-circumstances type of girl. (I may be a night owl, but I’m a homebody night owl.)
The part of all this that started to freak me out a little was that the man wouldn’t stop talking about how Savannah was full of evilness, and that there were young black men (his words, not mine) everywhere who would love to use their evil on me. I shouldn’t walk alone, I shouldn’t be alone, and I should always use my third eye to keep me out of evilness and away from evil people. Because there are evil people out there. And they would look for me. And so on.
I have read a few James Lee Burke novels in my time, as well as the aforementioned Janet Evanovich pieces of fun. As a result, I couldn’t help my mind going to the place where this guy was talking about himself, and I was about to be followed home and evil-ed up. In my head, I was also glad that people often notice me because of my purple flower beanie, for I decided this would enable the police to track my movements more easily.
Okay, so I’m still here, which means that nothing untoward happened and this fellow really was just someone wanting me to be careful about my safety.
I probably should have figured that out when he told me I had a cute accent. However, I stand by the fact that it was a rather bizarre encounter, all told.