Little Margaret Finnegan had one of those days. You know, you start out feeling great, say good morning to the world, pick some roses, sing a ditty, pet a kitty, and then someone shits all over it. Nothing serious – just bad enough to snap your open heart shut like a tapped oyster.
It’s the chance encounter where a stranger has an ax to grind, and he grinds it in your forehead.
One such encounter I had is particularly vivid, and happened in the college days.
I was walking down the streets of Hollywood, barefoot, which has always been my preferred method of transportation. A woman on the other side of the street screamed, “Put on some shoes you whore! You filthy whore, get dressed. You're nothing but a prostitute!” And she tracked my progress that whole block, continuing to shout.
Here’s the thing.
When someone screams something crazy like this, do people turn to check out the screamer? No , they all stared at the screamee. The entire time. Apparently thinking, well let’s get a good look at this whore.
A stronger person probably would have yelled back, providing information to correct the impression of a professional status. I, of course, said nothing.
But the story eventually paid for itself because it’s one I’ve told many times, in the service of some point or another.