The people that you meet, when you're walking down the street

I've lived in Columbia Heights for a little over 6 years now. In that time, I've seen a lot of changes in the neighborhood (well, hello, retail stores and fancy gastropubs) and seen a lot of interesting characters come and go.

There's one person who's been a fixture in my neighborhood for pretty much the whole time I've lived here. I saw him from afar before I ever encountered him. He was hard to miss--he was always riding a beat up old bicycle in a weaving pattern through the streets, usually while carrying a radio of the sort that was known in my youth as a "ghetto blaster."

I admired the balance that this feat took, and was intrigued by the fact that he seemed to be "blasting" gospel music. He was an interesting figure.

And then I started hearing things. Friends started referring to him as "that jerk with the radio;" "that guy who rides around with his radio insulting people;" and finally "the insult guy."

The Insult Guy told my bald friends that they were bald. He told friends who were self conscious about their weight that they were fat. If he saw you getting into a car, he insulted your car. He told one couple that they were nothing but "a dumb pretty boy and an old fatty," and that their relationship wouldn't last*. If nothing else, he'd go after your clothes.

But still, I was intrigued. And then I had my first encounter with him.

It was that one time when I didn't have syphilis. I was walking back from the train, having just had a traumatic day at the hospital, and already planning to go home and drown my sorrows in whatever leftover pie I could find.

And then I heard gospel music weaving its way up the street toward me. A figure on a bicycle made its way into view. And suddenly, I was eye to eye with Insult Guy.

He braked his bike and looked me over--the whole bedraggled, bespotted, bespectacled package. "You look like shit," he said. "I look awesome."

My mouth fell open. He rode on up the street to find more people to insult. I went home to eat my weight in pie.

I thought at the time that what made Insult Guy's insult so potent was its absolute truth--I had a pink rash, wasn't wearing my contacts or make-up, hadn't washed my hair, and was heading home to wait on the results of a syphilis test. I did look like shit.

But then we had our next run-in, and the theory of "his power is in his honesty" was shot to hell.

It was a year or so later. Once again, I was walking through the neighborhood. I was on my way to the Metro so I could meet friends--I believe for shopping and brunch--and I looked cute.

Once again, I heard a chorus of Alleluias snaking its way down the street toward me. Oh dear, I thought. And sure enough, soon Insult Guy was pulling up level with me.

This time, he didn't brake to a stop. He just called out his insult as he passed. "Your shades is broke," he informed me. "My shades is awesome."


Again, my jaw dropped. Now, I'm not a label whore for the most part, but for many years now I've had a singular allegiance to Chanel sunglasses. So the shades that Insult Guy deemed "broke" were a pair of mock tortoise 5064b's.

His shades? The shades that were awesome?

Blueblockers.

Oh yes. Blueblockers. As in "My name is Geek, I put 'em on as a shocker/ yeah, I love me some Blueblockers."

After that, I didn't see Insult Guy for awhile. I heard he was still around, but was spared further run-ins with him. And the peculiar sting of his insults--both accurate and delusional--began to fade.

Then last winter, I was driving home one afternoon, and trying to find a place on or near my street to park my car. Coming from the west and looking to either side of the street, I almost missed the figure lurching toward me from the east.

When I did see it, I almost screamed. I thought I was having some sort of hallucination because how else--how else????--could one explain seeing what appeared to be a malevolent dwarf approaching in broad daylight?

I parked my car and got out just as the figure came level with me. And it was then I realized. . .it was Insult Guy.

Insult Guy was a little person (it may help to imagine him as a mean version of Midget Mac from I Love New York 2). And I hadn't realized this until he got down off of his bike.

He glared at me as he passed. "My bike got stole, but I'm still fresher than you!" He told me.

Gaping, I went into my house. Did this make things better or worse? Was the story of Insult Guy more poignant or more hilarious because he appeared to be suffering from some sort of dwarfism? Was this why he was so angry at the world and had to aggrandize himself all the time?

Somehow, it made him even more interesting as an anecdote, and I shamelessly trotted him out at parties for the rest of the year. Friends found my tales of his antics--complete with ghetto blaster and Blueblockers--hilarious. M.A. compared him to something from a Fellini film.

On Saturday, I was once again looking for a parking space in my neighborhood. I turned onto the nearest side street, and saw a familiar figure on a bicycle.

My first thought was "oh, he got a new bike!"

My second was "thank god he's already halfway down the street."

My third was "holy shit, is he doubling back? Is he doubling back just to insult me???"

Indeed, he was. As I took my packages out of the trunk of my little blue roadster, he informed me of the following three facts:

1. "Your car look cheap an' ugly."
2. "My bike is fresh. I can tell you jealous, princess."
3. "An' my hair look better than yours too."

Now, on the first count, I will fully admit that my car was a hand-me-down and needs a wash, badly. On the second, I'm sure his new bike is "fresh" compared to his old bike or to having to wash, but I'm not necessarily jealous.

The third is patently false, and that's really what got to me. Insult Guy has short cornrows. I shell out a fair number of ducats every eight weeks for a really damn good haircut--so good, in point of fact, that people have taken pictures of me to their hairdressers to get the same thing. There is no way his hair looks better than mine.

Fuming, I turned on my heel and was about to scream at him. "You are an unemployed midget on a bicycle," I wanted to say. "You don't even have your ghetto blaster any more, and your clothes haven't been washed since the Clinton era."

But somehow, I restrained myself, and shrugged. "Have a good time," is what came out instead.

He seemed startled. "You too," he said automatically.

It was only as I walked away that he seemed to realize that there was no way that qualified as an insult. So after a pause of about fifteen or twenty seconds, he added a halfhearted "bitch."

* On this count, Insult Guy seems to have been somewhat prescient.