Donika Miller's Blog

Yesterday I was preparing notes for a new author and caught myself typing, "Are you sure it makes sense for the batteries to go up her ass?" Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my job. I have a lot of moments where I pause to reflect on the strange ideas and places working for Rudius has led me to, not the least of which is living in New York. Anytime I notice myself doing something like analyzing the relationship between batteries and asses and begin to think there's something a little bit weird about me and my life choices, there's somewhere I can go and identify myself as one of the more normal people. Goddamn, I love the subway.

Last night I sat at my station waiting, and a very large, very googly-eyed, very retarded black man came stumbling up to me.

"Hello!"

"Hi there."

"Mind if I join you?" He nodded toward the empty seat next to me.

"Sure, go ahead."

This is an aspect of my personality that concerns the people who care about me. I'll talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere-- tourists, old ladies, immigrants, students, coffee shop patrons, homeless guys, retarded people... actually, especially homeless guys and retarded people. Moreover, people seem to really like talking to me. If there's someone around with a story to tell, a grievance to air, or a piece of news to share, they somehow usually find me. "It's because you look like a victim," my mom has sternly cautioned, but I like to think of it more as having a friendly face. I know it's not particularly safe for me to engage strangers, but on the other hand I've been truly honored by some of the incredibly personal, brave, and unusual things people have shared with me over the years. I wasn't expecting much of a good story from this guy, but I have a standing policy of being nice to retarded people because... well, why not?

I'll tell you why not.

"My name is Tom!" Tom had some long-ass hair around his nostrils and deposits of filmy whiteness at the corners of his mouth. His oversized Jets jacket was covered in stains and I started to worry that he might smell.

"Hi, Tom, I'm Allison." I never use my real name with people I'm not likely to see again.

"I like your shoes. They look like ballerina shoes."

"Thanks. You're right, they do!"

"I like your socks, too. What's on them?"

I looked down and remembered my silly socks, "Oh, ha, those are dogs. See? A dalmatian and a greyhound and--"

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Sure," I wiggled a little, "These aren't really ballet slippers. The material is harder so you can't tell I'm wiggling." I bent down and pressed on the tips of my shoes to show him. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Sure!" He wiggled and through his soft sneakers I could see his big toe bopping around.

I giggled.

He giggled.

It was nice.

"Wiggle them again!" he commanded, bending over to get a closer look at my feet. I wiggled, and then he said, "Wiggle just that one!" pointing to my right foot. From there we engaged in a little game of Simon Says with me wiggling my right or left toes, foot on the ground, off the ground, one then the other, then both, and so on. Just as the train pulled up, he asked, "Can you cross your legs and just wiggle that foot?" Suddenly it dawned on me, Wait a second, what exactly are we doing here?

"Sorry, I have to go." Naturally, he followed me onto the train and sat right next to me, his eyes locked on my feet.

"Wiggle them again!"

"No, you wiggle yours." He did but then immediately demanded I get back to work. "What's so interesting about this to you?" I asked him, noting uncomfortably that he wasn't touching himself, but was using the bottom of his shirt to wrap his hands into tight balls. It suggested that he'd gotten in trouble in the past for touching himself and was exercising some restraint. "I don't know," he replied, "I just like it. Can you take your shoes off and do it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not polite to take your shoes off in public... and it's too cold."

"It's warm in here. You can do it!"

"I don't want to. I'm not taking my shoes off."

"OK, then just wiggle your toes again?"

"No, I don't want to wiggle anymore."

For the first time since we boarded the train, he looked me in the face, "PLEASE," he begged with tears in his eyes, "You can't stop!" Now I was in a tough position. I sure as hell didn't want to gratify whatever his fetish is, but I also didn't relish being the girl who made the giant retarded guy on the subway cry. Not to mention, what if he flew into a retard rage? No way I could defend myself against that.

"Alright, listen, I'll wiggle my toes, but that's it. Both feet on the ground, no fancy stuff."

"OK!" he excitedly bent back down to focus on my feet.

"What is your stop?" I wondered how long I'd have to do this.

"42nd Street," he informed my feet. We were at 125th. Damnit.

Resigned, I took out my book and read while I wiggled. It was actually oddly peaceful. Once I started wiggling, he was quiet except for when I'd get lost in my book and forget what I was doing. "Wiggle!" he'd remind me. A half-sleeping Asian man across the aisle was watching by now, not even trying to conceal his confusion and disgust. You know you're involved in something severely perverse when an Asian dude is repulsed by your activities. He probably thinks I'm getting paid for this... Actually, I bet you CAN get paid for this, and here I am giving it away for free to a retarded guy. God I'm a sucker. A rush of people got on at 59th Street, and I started to become really embarrassed about the situation, "Listen, my feet are tired. I'm done wiggling."

"No! Come on!"

"Really, I'm done."

"Take off your shoes. The air will feel good."

"No, I told you I'm not taking them off."

"Then let me rub them!"

"Oh hell no."

"Come on," his stop was coming up and he was growing gravely anxious, "Just let me touch one. Just for a minute."

"You're not touching my feet."

"Do you paint your toenails?"

"Yes, but... listen, I'm done now, and you're not touching my feet."

"Take off your socks! Please? Just one! I want to see your nail polish."

"No... isn't this your stop?" The train was slowing down.

"Yes." He stared out the train window with a determined, furrowed brow, then turned back to my foot. "Come on, take one sock off. I just want to see before I go."

"No." I looked up at the Asian guy who clearly had zero sympathy for me and my dirty dealings.

"Please? Just one sock."

The train doors opened. "You better get going. You're going to miss your stop, Tom!"

And like that, he bolted off the train, hands wrapped in his shirt, running unsteadily, almost certainly rushing home to masturbate to the thought of my feet. While all of this makes me think I pretty much facilitated my own sexual assault, hey, at least someone finds my doggy socks sexy.

Later on, I picked up the piece I'd been editing, and had to verify some information in it by doing a Google search for "baby erection diaper" and "infant male erection." Ahhhh, back to normalcy.

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