I've still got it.

In college I attracted stalkers. Something about me that said, hmmm….I would enjoy scaring her and then cutting her limbs off and stuffing them in my freezer. Lucky for all of us, this never happened, but as I’ve grown older… I’ve missed the attention.

Today, however, that old feeling returned. I was sitting in the ‘Boro at a miniscule table at Starbucks writing. Along came an elderly man and sat right with me. Scraggly clothes, weathered face. Told me he liked my hair and then asked me about his “laptop”. I told him I knew nothing about his invisible laptop. He then went on to get in my face, calling me sweetheart and spewing things that were “just between you and me”. He told me about his friend Donald Trump. He told me how when he couldn’t get his electricity turned on here in TN he called Rudy Giuliani, Bill Frist and Bob Bradley who in turn called the Middle TN Electric Company for him.

He asked me what I did and I told him I was a writer. He asked what I wrote, (my least favorite question) and I wanted to answer that there will soon be a story about him no doubt. He said he approached me because I had lovely hair (Loving Care Copper Penny) and a serene and intelligent look. That’s serial killer talk if I ever heard it.

Funny thing is I was just emailing my friend Dan about my lack of stalkers. He said he used to have one until she realized he only left his house for coffee and hair gel.

Now it seems I only draw mini-stalkers, one-off encounters with crazies who move on to bigger and better targets. There must not be enough left in me for the hunt, just the peck.

Years ago there used to be this restaurant in Nashville that had napkin holders on each table with a flag attached to the top. You could stick it up in the air with a little antenna attachment and it read “hey, waiter.” The waiter had to be there within 30 seconds. I think I’ll make my own, carry it in my purse and set it atop tables, a flag that says “Freak Alert” with the word “Ayuda” on the other side. Maybe I will just fashion a pen that has a little waving sign on the top that says, “Let me be.”

I seem to gather the strange ones around me. Maybe they feel akin; maybe they think I am more pitiful than them, sitting at a table alone. I am flattered and insulted. Flattered that they see a kind ear to listen, insulted that they think I have nothing more important to do.

Sofia has this little baby that cries and goos. I am thinking about attaching it to my breast with duct tape while I am sitting there typing. Of course, then there will be the woman who says, “Oh, let me see the little one.” And then the tape ripping sounds and the head turns and there I’ll be—the odd one, the one that people flee from. Not a bad idea.