She Called me Sweetheart
by Titus Gee
The girl behind the gas station counter appeared to be about my age.
She was blonde and not unattractive.
I was blond and not unattractive.
Still, the fact that she called me ‘sweetheart’ four times in five minutes struck me as odd.
I don’t know what I expected — standing there in my biker’s leathers, gloves and boots with a bandana round my neck, three-day beard, and eyes obscured behind reflective shades — but it wasn’t ‘sweetheart.’
This isn’t my usual ‘look.’ I’m a journalist, so shirts and ties rule the day — at least when I’m not out on a 280-mile jaunt to find the best motorcycle routes in town.
I don’t think I would have gotten the sweetheart treatment in my work clothes, though.
It’s amazing what can happen when you change your clothes.
About a week after my long bike ride, I went to an artist’s show at a goth bar in Hollywood. Wore mostly black with accents in blue, and a slight smudge of eyeliner on each eye — a nod to my industrial-punk host.
In the Starbucks on Hollywood Blvd, nobody called me sweetheart. I was far from the most eye-catching figure in those notoriously flamboyant environs. Still, I couldn’t help grinning at the number of unabashed stares I got from people I passed on the street, people decked out in all the standard stereotypes — preppy, tramp, or haute couture. A different set of folks met my eyes with a slight smile of recognition.
I’ve made a kind of informal study out of watching people react to me in different guises — suits or jeans, coveralls or sleeveless shirts that show off the tattoo.
To my surprise, the most notable thing I’ve seen is not overt prejudice. Very few women have dragged their children hastily away; businesses don’t give me poor service, no matter what ‘negative’ forms I wear on the outside. The startling thing has been the sense of inclusion. In each stylization, a totally different set of people meets my eye with the silent greeting of an equal.
I don’t really identify with any sub-sets, or the clothes that go with them, so that inclusion can be quite startling.
One weekend the gas station girl calls me ‘sweetheart.’
The next, a guy with dreadlocks calls out a jovial “Hey, bro!” or a girl in full goth wear with spikey mohawk flashes her dimples and demands, “What are you on right now? Come on, tell me!”
What can I say?
I know. I look like one of your own. But really I’m just passing through.
Anyway, thanks for the smiles. I like to see people who aren’t hiding when they look at me — even if it means I have to go undercover.
