Lesson #56: Ugly black chicks don't give you no money.

When living in a city like Chicago, you don't always have to wait for the city to teach you some life-changing lesson...sometimes her inhabitants will gladly do it for her. While standing on the platform waiting for the train home one afternoon, I was approached by a large, African-American man whose sweat glands seemed to be on high alert due to the intense, breezy 75 degree heat. Pulling out a damp rag from his back pocket, he basically just pushed the water around on his glistening, bald head. He said something to me, but I was so distracted by the tiny, yet impressive water show on his head that I had to ask him to repeat himself.

"Ugly black chicks don't give you no money."

How do you respond to an opening line like that? Do you just agree with a polite head nod and look away hoping he will pick up on your awkward body language and move along to educate another skinny, white boy on the platform? Do you disagree and begin a discussion on racial prejudice? Do you pretend to be deaf and begin to use the only sign language you know (the chorus to "Jesus Loves Me" and the word "bathroom")? Or do you simply say, "I'm uncomfortable" and walk away?
Answer: None of the above. Unsure of what was happening at that moment, I just stared at him blankly, unable to move. I muttered something that sounded like a "humph." This encouraged him to continue. Sweet.

"Go up to any young, 22 -year-old pretty African-American girl and ask her for money, and you got 5 dollars. No questions asked. Go up to an ugly black chick and nothing. She'll pretend she don't hear you, but she do."

First, I have no idea why this man felt I was the perfect person to educate on the philanthropic habits of young, African-American women, yet here we are. Secondly, I wanted to ask why the pretty girls were "African-American girls" and the ugly girls were "black chicks." However, now was not the time to get into racial semantics, there were more pressing issues to discuss...like who is more likely to give you 5 dollars. Despite my mastery of the English language, I couldn't put together a response. I just said, "huh" and nodded. Luckily, this is all Fountain Head Man needed to continue. With another quick dab of his water-moving rag, he continued...

"I got a job, see. I don't need to beg for money. I just do it when I'm runnin' low. I got a girlfriend and she take my money. It's a real bad sit'iation."

Whoa, this life lesson has taken a sudden, personal turn. I wasn't prepared for this. Before, I was just a disconnected listener waiting for the man with the over-active sweat glands to stop talking, but now I am invested in this man's "sit'iation." I must know...why is his girlfriend taking his money? Is she a klepto? Does she have a drug problem? Is she prettier than me? Our hero continues...

"See, she looks like Beyonce. Little titties, big ass. Just color her hair yellow and boom! Beyonce! But she dranks, smokes weed, and has kids. I give her all my money for her kids but she buys weed and sells it. What am I gonna do? So, I ask pretty, young 22-year-old black girls for money. See...right there. She a young pretty 22-year-old black girl. Ask her for money, she give you 10 dollar. Guaranteed."

Before moving on, I must address a few flaws in his last monologue...
1. What Beyonce video is he watching? She doesn't have yellow hair. Maybe it was a yellow-ish blonde color when she was still with Destiny's Child and her mother was making her clothes out of plastic and the hides of zoo animals, but it hasn't been that color in years. Get a People magazine, dude. Educate yourself. Sorry, B.
2. If your girlfriend is taking your money to buy weed and then sell it for a profit, that doesn't make her a bad girlfriend...it makes her a young businesswoman...with little titties and a big ass.
3. Why is 22 the standard age for young? What data do you have to back-up your choice? I need pie charts and spreadsheets, please...and keep them away from your sweaty head.
4. The young, pretty 22-year-old black girl you just pointed out is Latina and appears to be 12. Now, I'm having trouble trusting your judgment. I was totally with you up to this point.

Sweaty McSweatHead took my silent contemplation of his last statement as a sign of self-doubt and insecurity.
"Don't worry. You a young, good-looking 22-year-old guy. You can get money from her."

I was feeling a little less than my normal pretty self that day due to my spray tan fading into blotchy patches of orange and white (think skinny, hairless Calico cat), so I gladly took the compliment. Thank you, Wet Face Person. I tell him that I'm okay and that she can keep her money.
Not discouraged by my lack of participation, he continues the conversation by changing the subject to music. Through a series of unfortunate questions and responses, we end up talking about John Travolta in drag. (Of course, to be fair...when someone asks me what my favorite type of music is, my first instinct is usually to yell out, "John Travolta in drag!") He continues...

"I saw Hairspray. It pretty good, pretty good. John Travolta was a woman! Shit! I said, 'She an ugly woman' and then I find out it John Travolta. I liked it."

At this point, I honestly don't know how to continue with this conversation. There have been so many twists and turns that I'm still scratching my head and I'm feeling slightly vulnerable. Who is this person? Why did he begin this conversation at all? Why does he think Beyonce has yellow hair? Why was everyone so impressed with John Travolta in drag? Where is the damn train?!

As if the Lord Baby Jesus heard me screaming for the train in my splotchy, Calico head, I see the train a'comin' (that's how you say "the train is approaching"...in 1893). I then begin to get nervous...will he want to sit next to me on the train and continue this bizarre conversation? Will it be rude of me to find a seat with no open seats surrounding it? Will it hurt his feelings if I jump in front of the moving train?

As the train comes to a stop, Sweat Midler wishes me good luck and walks toward another train car. Oh no! What happened? HE walked away from ME! Was I just rejected by the Mayor of Sweattown? Ouch. My pride. However, as I walk in to the train car, I am comforted by the notion that at least we had something special for just a moment. After all, he chose me to share his nugget of wisdom with. There were plenty of people on the platform, but he chose me. I take my seat feeling happy and content...and as the doors close, I hear from a distance, "Hey man, don't try to get money from no ugly black girl." Shit.