I’ve always wished I could run from the kindness of strangers….

I’ve found that there are three types of people who will just go up to a perfect stranger and spill their life story: crazy people, people who are hitting on you, and Southerners. Unfortunately here in Virginia, those categories get blurred more often than I’d like.

I’ve never really been friends with my neighbors. Growing up, the only neighbors I had were my cousins, so that didn’t count. And everyone knows New Yorkers don’t talk to their neighbors, so I was under no obligation there. I would like to meet and befriend my neighbors, but I’m beginning to think Richmond, VA might not be the place to start.

Last night, I get out of my car, spot a neighbor, say hi, expect to continue on my way, but no. She launches into the crazy Southerner life story speech. I learn that her friend is sick, she hates laundry, has a dog that doesn’t live with her (where then?), wants one of those house broken cats that don’t need no litter box, and the reason she is on her hands and knees is to eat pills from the ground. At this point I’m still ok with the level of crazy. Then her wrist is shoved in my face, paralyzed two days ago, no reason. I’m invited into her home. John Deere everywhere. Pink John Deere. I wasn’t aware they made that. She tells me my teeths is really pretty, not the strangest compliment ever received (sexy feet). I’m desperately trying to make my escape as the fifteen pound box of kitty litter cuts into my wrist. But I don’t want to be a total snob for no reason.

So here are reasons. After I told her my name again, for the seventh time, she asks me where I’m from. Then she invites herself along the next time I head to NYC so she can get one of dem fancy purses for real cheap. She ain’t never been no wheres you see. Then she tells me not to be afraid of where we live (adorable apartment complex), despite our neighbors, the 80 year old guard is a friend of hers. I apparently make the mistake of looking like I care, so she tells me what’s wrong with our neighbors.

The girl at the end of the block, well, she’s a crack head, she can tell that right off. She don’t mean to talk bad about people, but yeah, ain’t nobody looks like that that ain’t a crack head. The girl in question is simply an African American college student who has the misfortune of not being 60 pounds overweight. Damn crackheads. Then there’s the Jamaican fellow, who’s nice enough but that’s the pot and why does he keep such strange hours. Apparently anyone with dreads is Jamaican. I’ve never got the impression he smoked anything but the cancer sticks this city is weaned on, and he works nights. Next. That retarded fellow. God damn retard. He came up to her little niece and said hi one day and she looked right at her niece and told her, "if he ever says anything to you again, you scream and yell, push him over and coming running inside, you hear?" The poor man is handicap and has assisted living. He can’t go anywhere without his nurse, is as sweet as a four year old and about as developed. And someday he’s going to think the apocalypse has come because some little girl is going to start shrieking and shove him down. Wonderful.

At this point the horror on my face was clear enough to read all the way to Connecticut, so she felt the need to defend herself. So she states clearly, “yeah, I know, I know, I’m a racist.” Wait, did I hear that correctly? Then again, “Yes, I’m a racist, I just don’t trust nobody who ain’t white.” Do they still make people like this anymore? I blacked out for the rest of her speech and finally managed to sputter that I had to leave. Now. I now have a new mission, to make friends with a crackhead, a retard, and a pot smoking Jamaican. Racist repellant.