Serenade

The Drag, as aforementioned, is the grittiest, nastiest street within walking distance of campus. I find myself walking it late at night quite often. It's a place that is home to people called "drag rats" - strung out hippies who carry kittens on their shoulders, play guitar in the alleys, mumble some kind of drug-induced beat poetry as they wander, and emit a stench that would make a patient dying of gangrene shudder. They're usually sporting dreadlocks (irregardless of race) and a sign tbat references the apocalypse. Invariably, they either catcall or ask for money. Here's a couple of typical drag-dwellers:

Seriously, this is a huge phenomenon. Google "Drag Rats Austin" and just see what kinds of horror stories pop up.

Now, it's not that I'm a heartless or stingy person. I just don't make a habit of giving money to drag rats, mostly because I'm a broke college student who can't afford to give every single one of them ten bucks. I have some sense of equality for all hobos (at least that's what I tell myself).

Once, I was hurrying down the Drag, late for a meeting, when two hobos called out to me as I passed. They were sitting under the eaves of a resale shop and holding guitars.

"Hey, pretty lady, let me play you a song!"
"Sorry." That's my standard response to all drag rats, whatever the question or statement may be. It could be, "do you have money?" - sorry. "What time is it?" - sorry. "The end of the world is nigh!" - sorry. It's just a great catch-all. If it doesn't logically answer the question, it confuses them enough so that I have time to get away.

But this time, they were persistant, and I had to wait at a crosswalk.

"Come one, one song!"

Irritated, mostly because I was late, I said, without thinking, "I don't like music."

This is a blatant lie. I love music. I'm a music major. But they didn't have to know that.

Oh wait. They did. I was wearing a burnt orange shirt that said TEXAS MUSIC.

There was a long pause, during which, through eye contact, we both acknowledged that I had just said something incredibly stupid. Then one of the hobos said, scathingly, voice literally dripping with venom, "I hope you trip and break your pretty little face, bitch."

I saw those two again, recently, when I was walking with a friend. I yelped and tried to hide on the other side of him as we passed the pair. Either my makeshift bodyguard hid me from view and they either didn't see me, or didn't remember me. Lucky break.