Two days ago I was repulsed by the unwelcome (i.e., overly familiar) attention of an older, possibly alcoholic, seemingly unstable dude. It happened in the Wilton Library and it wasn’t cool. The man was sitting nearby and belching, for one thing. Every so often he got up and sauntered around like a drunk. He passed by my work station twice, and too slowly for my comfort.
The first time I said nothing, although I was thinking “what’s his fucking problem?” The second time he stopped and looked down at me as he rested his forearm on the work station partition, like he wanted to chat. “The fuck?” I said, alarmed and recoiling at the possibility. He half-smiled and muttered something about the fact that it was raining outside. I looked at him with disgust, and he promptly ceased all attempts at conversation.
Five or ten minutes later he belched again, sounding like a hog as his throat was being cut.
Running into drunks and nutters on one of the New York City subway lines is unfortunately par for the course, but it‘s beyond the pale in bucolic Wilton.