Strangers:

Understanding why strangers feel the need to approach me in public when I mind my own business is beyond fathomable. Last Tuesday, I saw myself waiting on nearby Page Street for my Uber Eats order, a 14-inch buffalo chicken pizza with added extra bacon. My primary objective of the order, solely consume the 14 incher alone in my dorm room, then miserably fall asleep before 7 pm. The plan was nothing but feasible as it had already been done successfully too many times. This night was slightly different due to the fact I made my way outside to the corner of Page Street five minutes before my driver, Jose's, said arrival. All was good. Jose was only five minutes away. Five minutes was enough time to contemplate why resorting to emotional eating was becoming a counterproductive calendar event. I never did have time to reassess my values, for better or worse, as a gray Honda Pilot proceeded to pull right next to my standing spot on the corner of Page Street. Figuring Jose was early due to lack of traffic or perhaps disobedience of set traffic laws, I approached the Honda. Tinted windows at first raised some suspicion but I eventually built up enough audacity to awkwardly knock on the window. "Hey Jose, it's Jackson."

With my less than convincing knock on the tinted window of the Honda Pilot and monotone voice, I waited for a response of any form. It took roughly four seconds of standing hopelessly after introducing myself to a tinted car window, but the driver window slowly receded. Once the full recession of the window commenced, I saw myself face to face with a man of Tony Soprano features. "I'm not Jose, but you smoke weed?". Taken aback by the abrupt question, my immediate response was "Do you have my pizza?". This was perhaps not the smartest move on my part but in retrospect a solid question. He continued with his antics, completely ignoring my question, "Hey, I'm not Jose, okay. Do you want to go smoke weed right now or not?". I did not. I wanted my 14-inch buffalo chicken pizza with added extra bacon from my actual Uber Eats driver, Jose. Smoking weed with someone around the age of my grandfather with the completion of a New Jersey mob boss that I had met while waiting for my Uber Eats was not going to happen. So I pulled the oldest "Sorry, I don't smoke weed" trick in the book, one that had gotten me out of so many previous encounters of peer pressure and acute conformity. "Sorry I don't smoke weed, I have anxiety." To use a Harry Potter reference as grudgingly as possible, it was as if I has said Voldemort's name in the halls of Gryffindor. Oh, I'm sorry, Harry Potter references are as cringe-inducing to me as they are to you. I don't know why I went there but let me continue. The man in the Honda Pilot froze, seconds later only repeating, "Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety," now in the voice of Tony Soprano. I'm not sure if he was going for the rhetorical device of repetition to emphasize further how much of a pussy he thought of me, but I never had a chance to ask him. He sped away without hesitation. I eventually got my pizza from Jose and fell asleep before 7 pm with a severe stomach ache. Everything was okay again.

But these types of encounters for me have become beyond normalized to the point of annoyance. The long hair possibly plays a role. Maybe it's the monotone voice. I'm not confident what breaks the barrier for stranger confrontation, but it's something I've learned to live with.

Today I went to Dave's Coffee, in the heart of Brown University, to work on my homework and possibly find a wife. As usual, I did not find a wife. Instead, as I went to plug my laptop into the nearest outlet, I was approached by what I thought was a Brown student. Let me clarify, a Brown University student. I'm not racist. However, he ironically happened to be from Indian, Delhi specifically and wanted suggestions on where to go for lunch. So I told him a few places, expecting that to be the end of the conversation. But it wasn't. We talked for two hours. From economic inequality in Delhi to the nature of Bollywood being ridiculously over-the-top to how he was arrested for carjacking. This was all cool. I was not expecting for him to follow up this humble talk of geopolitics and pop culture with a story of how he lit his drunk friends genital, penis specifically, on fire. But he did just that, in front of an elderly couple, in the middle of a coffee shop.

The story starts with my newfound Delhi friend going into detail about this one member of his friend group, Rajat Garage. If you, for whatever reason, have the urge to follow him on Instagram by the end of this story, his username is rajatg21. Rajat, according to my Delhi friend, is always picked on by the friend group as Rajat never retaliates. One night Rajat had a little too much to drink and passed out unresponsive on the ground. So my Dehli friend, being the classic Dehli prankster he is, figured it would be a reasonable idea to stick toilet paper up Rajat's crack. As he's telling me all of this, the surrounding stares are only increasing. With a lighter and some spray cologne, the friend group proceeds forward, and Rajat's crack, as well as private area, go up in flames. At this point the surrounding stares were unbearable. "Bro, I need to show you some pictures that Rajat sent me!". This was all now getting a little uncomfortable. Discomfort aside, I needed to see what Rajat Garage, the penis and butt crack burn survivor, looked like. So I now grant you all the opportunity to witness rarely seen footage, obtained in the middle of Daves Coffee, of Rajat Garage: