Arsehole

By Bronwen Logan

It changed me.

I was just standing there waiting for a taxi when he stopped the car. It was a red, biggish type of car from the 80s. Something Australian that looked old and banged up. Sorry, I know absolutely nothing about cars. Maybe I’d seen it before, but my memory’s crap, so don’t take me up on that.

It was getting late and I’d been standing by the road for what seemed like forever – 10 minutes perhaps. Okay, so my perception of forever is also a bit out of whack but my legs were tired. My job at Maccas was killing me. ‘Would you like fries with that?’ I really do have to say that you know, I’m not just making it up. I like to have fries with everything so I thought it’d be a great job for me, but who was to know that it was this job that would have me standing out here on this particular night.

‘Whatcha doin’ luv?’ Screamed the loser over the roar of his souped-up bomb.

‘What’s it look like arsehole,’ I jeered back. ‘Cleanin’ me teeth?’

‘Lemme give ye a lift then. We can do our teef together.’

‘Bugger off en leave me alone, will ya,’ I’d had enough of this jerk. Maybe he was a mate of my brother. Probably.

I began walking away. Hasslers were a pain in the arse. They never do it because they really like you, you know. That’s what I don’t like. I mean, if that loser really liked me he’d go about the pick up thing a whole different way. He’d drive up onto the curb to stop me, run into a shop selling red roses, buy out the entire place and present them to me on his knees. Everyone in town would stop and cheer and laugh and I’d blush and say, ‘I do’. I’m jumping the gun here, aren’t I? It’s those bloody body spray ads, they get me every time. I’ve yet to splurge on a can though – so shove that up your marketing arse whoever.

Back to this loser. I did actually wonder what he got out of hassling me. I guess he’s just an arsehole, I thought. And you know I was right. I know this because I changed my mind about walking away. On this day, I turned around and faced him. ’Show us ya bits luv,’ I leered, following up with, ‘Where you goin’ babe? Lemme take ya for a ride. Ha, ha, ha.’ And a few other choice comments from my past experiences. Getting in the groove, I walked towards him seductively undoing my size 18 work blouse, flashing my sweaty old bra. A glorious waft of fried burgers was released along the way.

You should’ve seen the look on his face. Hilarious. He was scared shitless. Loser started reversing down the road. I get it now! Being an arsehole was fun. But I don’t think it’s for me – not unless I get myself a new bra.