Not too many years ago, I aspired to be described by friends, family, and everyone who knew me as, “nice.” Yet, nice got me nowhere. It earned me no respect. It endeared me to no one, and it got me into many uncomfortable situations. Nice got me:
Wet. About 10 years ago, I agreed to meet an author at his gym in New York City at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday. It was the only open slot on his busy schedule, he told me. I was a nice girl. I could have told him that I would be busy at 5:30 a.m. that Saturday—busy sleeping, that is. I didn’t.
I traveled into New York the night before and slept on a couch at a friend’s apartment. I rose at 5 a.m. and walked to this author’s gym. It was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella. When I got to his building and pressed the buzzer, no one buzzed me in. I stood outside in the rain for 15 minutes, periodically pressing the buzzer, until he finally let me in.
“Were you waiting long,” he asked. “No, not long at all,” said Ms. Nice Girl.
Poor. Oh the collective dollars I’ve given to charities, panhandlers, and kids selling Chiclets in Tijuana. Not a day goes by that my phone doesn’t ring because someone wants my money. It seems every charitable organization knows all about me, from the Red Cross to the American Heart Association to every single kid who is selling candy for his or her school.
I have no ability to say no to a person or organization in need. When someone asks for my money, I think, “Gee, I worked hard for this and I may very well need it, but I’m sure [fill in the blank] needs it more.”
Bored. That one person in the room who is the only person on the planet who thinks he’s the most interesting person on the planet often corners me at parties. As said person drones on and on about every detail about his life, I find myself yearning to be closer to the dessert table.
Sticky. One downside to vacationing in St. Kitts is what I will call the Aloe People. Similar to those Squeegee Men who once (or possibly still do) tormented commuters who were stuck in traffic, the Aloe People descend on unsuspecting beach goers with their hands and a smile. Before a nice girl such as myself knows what’s up, they are massaging aloe into her skin and expecting payment in return.
For instance, one afternoon, my husband and I were sitting at a beach, drinking beer, watching the water, and listening to Reggae music. I noticed a young and very overweight black man walking toward us. Think Fat Albert and you’ll have a pretty good idea of this guy’s body size. He was ambling toward me. He was smiling. He made impressive eye contact. I assumed he was going to ask me for the time.
The next thing I knew, he had a hold of my arm and he was rubbing something on it. He said, “Th-th-th-tha-this is a-ah-ah-ah-aloe.” I looked at my husband. He looked at his beer. He stood. He walked to the bar.
“What gives?” I thought. “You’re going to let a stranger put his mitts all over your wife? Come on do something about this!” Aloe Man sat down next to me. He picked up my foot and dusted off the sand. Then he started rubbing aloe into my foot.
“Th-th-th-these are m-m-m-m-m-m-agic hands. I-I-I-I am the B-b-b-b-best,” he stuttered.
“Uh-huh,” I said, craning my head in search of my husband.
Magic Hands smelled. He smelled really bad. I turned my head in search of fresh air.
“Where are you?” I silently thought to my husband, trying to communicate with him through telepathy. “I need your help.”
Then I saw him walking toward me. “Oh, praise the Lord,” I thought. “Now he’ll tell Magic Hands to move along.”
He didn’t. He placed a beer on the picnic table in front of me and then walked away, seemingly to stare at something interesting at the water’s edge.
“He hates my guts,” I thought. “He really does hate me.”
Magic Hands was moving up my leg.
“Do-do-do-do y-y-y-your th-th-th-thighs?” he asked.
“What? No!” I said. “N-n-n-n-n-no th-th-th-thighs?”
“No thighs,” I said. I allowed myself to make eye contact in order to better assert my views about whether or not I wanted him to touch my thighs. His eyes were huge and round and blood shot. His tongue was curled in concentration, the middle of it pressed out from between his lips. And the smell. Jeez oh man Magic Hands stank to high heaven.
“Th-th-th-these,” he said, pointing to his hands. “Ar-ar-ar…”
“I know. They are magic. I know, you’re the best,” I said defeated.
He rubbed aloe into my face. He put it behind my ears.
My husband walked back to picnic table just as Magic Hands was finishing up. Magic Hands told us he wanted $20 for the pleasure of touching me. My husband gave him $7. Magic Hands balked. He asked me if I had any cash. I said, “No, my husband has all of the cash.” Magic Hands said, “Oh, you should have the money.”
I thought, “I’m really glad I don’t.” If I’d had money in my pocket, Magic Hands would have walked away with $40 instead of $7, and not because I enjoyed one second of his stinky self touching my body. I would have given him the money because I felt sorry for him, as I always do for any person who begs me for any amount of money.
I knew all about the St. Kitts economy. I knew that the government put thousands of islanders out of work when it shut down the sugar cane industry. I assumed Magic Hands would probably have loved to have some sort of respectable job. I was sure he hated every minute of accosting tourists like me.
But I hated every minute of him accosting me, too. I was sticky, for one. Worse, I couldn’t get Magic Hands’ sour stench out of my nose.
“I need a shower,” I told my husband.
“I bet you do,” he said.
“That guy really stank,” I said.
“Everyone on an island stinks. It’s hot here,” he said.
“I’m looking for a little sympathy,” I said.
“You could have stopped the guy,” he said. “You didn’t have to let him touch you.”
“Well, while we’re on the topic of him touching me,” I said, “You could have stopped him, too. I am your wife. You don’t have to let random men put their hands on me.”
“Who am I to say whether or not you want a massage?” he asked.
I had to give it to him. He had a point.
I thought, “If I don’t start sticking up for myself, no one will. I may be nice, but I don’t have to be this nice. Let Magic Hands rub aloe on some other tourist.”
And so, the very next day, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an aloe person walking toward me. She was smiling, and she was making eye contact.
I made eye contact, too, and I said, “No way.”
She walked on by, in search of a nicer tourist.
