Interviews with Strangers

The reason I enjoy hanging out with my cousin's girlfriend is because she is accidentally hilarious, she says whatever she thinks, and she helps shape blog-worthy days. However, there are downsides to this pseudo-cousin relationship. Whenever I'm around Heidi, I'm influenced to do and say things I normally would never do or say. She's like a drug or a shot of vodka, clouding my judgement.

Examples of how Heidi alters my behaviors? Yes, sure. We went to The Bite at Riverfront Park on Saturday evening, and we talked to so many strangers you'd think we were politicians trying to win votes.

To be fair, the first person we talked to thought he knew me. He is the one who stopped me. We were walking by the food booths and spotted the Willamette Burger Company, which is a top Friday Night Dinner location and was featured in the Burger Shack Shock. This lanky guy with dark hair and sunglasses starts making a beeline for us as we walk along the grass, and I start to think maybe the Italian mob is really changing their look these days, what without the snarls and everything.

"Hey, I think I know you," he says, and not in a you-owe-me-money sort of way. When someone says they know me, I usually believe them. I'm kind of a rare commodity. How many girls do you know who are exactly five feet tall, have a lion mane, and this face? Granted, I was wearing my famous celebrity sunglasses over my eyes, but still. The guy also looked a bit familiar.

Is this a person you think you know but don't?

"Maybe," I say. "What's your name?" He tells me it's Nate. I look at him some more and think that maybe he is one of my sister's friends that I've also hung out with, and maybe he thinks I am my sister. In retrospect, I probably should have asked him what he thought my name was. I never did say "hi, I'm Joelle." Instead, what I did was say, "This is Heidi. We go to the Willamette Burger Company sometimes. I usually get the grilled portobello mushroom though, because I'm a vegetarian."

Nate tells us how they actually have a vegan burger. "But is it your own recipe and handmade?" I ask. "Or is it some boxed Morning Star thing I can buy at Winco for three bucks?" Nate informs me that it is a Willamette Burger Company original, and that I should try it because they make it especially for people like me. I'm not sure if he means "people who you think you know but really don't" or "people who don't eat beef." Heidi and I then learn that Nate is a co-owner of WBC. I ask him how long he's been doing that. We chat a bit longer. I say that Heidi and I will stop in sometime soon for Friday Night Dinner. After departing, it becomes 80% clear to me that I don't think I actually knew that guy, even if he does know me. Sorry fool. I text my sister to see if his name rings a bell, but she does not respond since she is camping and probably has no reception.

Heidi and I sit on the grass and listen to the band for a while. During this time, Heidi decides to take pictures of unsightly circumstances, such as the brown/red tan guy without a shirt who is wearing his pants so low that you see his butt crack. I don't know why anyone would need to capture this image digitally, as it is a picture I have burned in my mind and would rather forget.

Here is a photo of Heidi and me with a giant Jamaican banana.

 Later we walk down to look at the river. We decide that we are going to acquire a little raft (or maybe do it Huck Finn style and bind some trees together) and go in the Willamette sometime. You never want to go swimming in the Willamette on account of how you might come back on land with a third eyeball or eleventh toe or something, but rafting would probably be safe.

On our way back up the stairs, we see a security guy sitting in chair with his arms crossed. We talk to him because he looks so utterly bored. I ask him if his job is to keep drunken people away from the water, and how many people has he had to restrain today? The conversation lasts about three minutes and ends with him receiving a notification on his walkie talkie. I am 75% sure I could become a security guard if I grew some facial hair and got up to at least 150 pounds. I say this because I have the whole arms-crossed-thing down, I know how to use a walkie talkie, and I look good in sunglasses acting like a bad ass.

Heidi and I continue our walk down the park, searching for shade in the 85 degree weather. We talk about how we need to find some other people to interview, but how they should probably be men, on account of how women don't generally receive strangers with prying questions very well. For example, if you go up to a random woman, say hello, and ask where she works, she might think that you want to know so that you can follow her home sometime and murder her. If you were to have the exact same conversation with a random man, he would probably just think you were flirting with him. This is also because a lot of men are affected by their testosterone and it inflates their ego. In agreement that the male gender is what we are looking for (and not for any sort of romantic purpose), Heidi and I tread on.

About two point five seconds later, my sidekick veers off in the direction of two girls who are sitting on a bench. I think to myself "What the heck? We just said no females," but I am also secretly fearful that they may know me, since I know 20% of the city's children through all my previous youth work. One of the girls has really awesome hair, so I ask her if I can take a picture of it, which is a total creeper thing to do. She reveals that she has extensions that she bought at Sally's Beauty Supply. I would post the picture of her gorgeous hair on here, except that I don't believe in posting photos of minors on-line. I've been a teacher in this town, and I know that this girl may have a creeper uncle or ex step-father who is on the look out for her. That's why you can't just go around snapping pictures of teens and telling the whole world where you saw them. Never mind the fact that this girl also told us which high school she goes to, and that she is 15 years old.

After learning of her baby age, I was curious how old she thought we were, so we inquired. She looked us up and down, took into account our mannerisms, then decided on 16. SIXTEEN. Through this, I am given confirmation that I could indeed be an undercover reporter and fake going to high school all over again like Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed. For the record, I'm 25 years young.

Instantly I feel more like a creeper, because this girl or her friend seriously could be one of my old students. I don't want to get arrested or lose my teaching license for starting friendships out of the classroom, so I try to high-tail it outta there. Heidi and I give the two teens advice to "stay away from creepy old men" and don't let anyone get in your pants.

This story is getting so long that I think I'll stop and post the other half of it tomorrow. So check back some time in the evening Tuesday to read about how I harassed the Jerky Hut guy for not having vegetarian jerky, how Heidi and I polled more people to guess our ages, and of how I got to name some reptiles and conversed in Spanish with a parrot.