Talc

          People see me as an easy mark.  Street vendors,
transients, JW's, Objectivists, Kirstie Alley, anyone with a
pitch, an angle, a con--they all want *me*.  Even though I never
make eye contact and walk as quickly and purposefully as I can, I
am still accosted.
     The creepiest such encounter happened just the other day,
not far from campus.  
     "Hey girlie, you want some *talc*?"  He said that word,
"talc", as if it were the most heinous, forbidden, desirable
silicate on the planet.
     I kept walking.  He was persistent.  "I said, do you want
some TALC?"
     "I heard you.  No.  Thank you.  No."
     "Lady, you don't get it.  TALC!  Four atoms of Magnesium. 
Three Silicon--"
     "I know the breakdown.  I don't need any talc!"
     Then he got real close and brought his face down right next to
mine and said, "It's *DRY*!"
     "Leave me alone.  I *know* it's dry.  I don't need any
fucking TALC!"
     He looked completely dejected.
     I looked at him and smiled and said, "But I *could* use some
Lysol."
     He beamed and we shared an unspoken vow of lifelong
friendship.