A Brush with the Royally Creepy

At the Brattle Theatre today:

Me: Hello. How are you?
Man: Good. I’m _____. What’s your name?
Me: I’m Sarah. <--Mistake # 1
Man: Oh good. What do you do for real?
Me: I’m a student. <--Mistake # 2
Man: Where?
Me: Do you know AB? <-- Mistake # 3

This was the beginning of one creepy conversation. Actually, the conversation was not creepy at all, but that guy was friendly…too friendly…so friendly it was creepy. Especially when the conversation careened into “We should get coffee together at Au Bon Pain next time you’re here” and “We should swap phone numbers.”

Now, if this were some hot Harvard student, I would be flattered with the attention, but this was a pasty, balding, beer-bellied, middle-aged, CREEPY man. And I couldn’t help running through my mind that I was talking to some crazy pedophile.

Seriously, aren’t all serial killers/rapists supposed to appear really friendly? This guy tried way to hard to impress me:

1. He says he used to teach fourth grade: Blatant attempt at making me trust him.
2. He disparages other people for not being friendly: Blatant attempt to make me feel special. (I just feel creeped out.)
3. He says he used to volunteer teaching English at Chinatown: Blatant attempt to appeal to common ground
4. He talks about drinking and smoking cigars: Blatant attempt at looking cool.
5. He says his students used to play in his backyard: Blatant attempt at making everything seem normal.

But it’s NOT normal! Not when he’s standing one foot away from me, and I’m pinned against the wall trying to get away from him. Not when I’m scared to go to the bathroom alone because I think he might attack me. Not when he keeps looking back at me during the movie. Not when he tries to teach me how to close the door by breathing down my neck.

Steff! You must come and protect me next week—I’m almost afraid to set foot in the Brattle in case I meet that creepy man again.

Am I being a cynical bitch or am I being sensible? How do you get rid of unwanted stalkers?

This is one of those days when I’m glad not to have a myspace or livejournal or a functioning xanga. Shit. Internet stalking is too easy.