Perhaps the most frustrating of hypothetical pursuits is the search for just the right come-back long after the moment has passed.
I was on the rapid metro, and he kind of looked like Bill O’Reilly. With a much larger stomach. His sunglasses afforded his eyes a privacy that made his expression obscene. And he was far too well dressed for the way he was sitting.
He accused me of speaking “woman-eze,” a dialect characterized by indirect responses. He had asked if I had a laptop in my bag. I said, “Not with me, no.”
Fifteen minutes later, more people had boarded, and I had become re-immersed in my mp3s. I received a few comforting but uneasy glances, and I realized that he was talking about me.
“She’s part of the counter-revolution. But it’s genetic.” His wife had a 160 IQ, but that damn second X-chromosome kept her from being a provider. “They can’t do math. They can’t do science.”
“They care too much about how they look. Like you.” He turned. “You color your hair, you’ve got lipstick; you dress well. My wife dresses me.”
I do nothing to my hair but wash it, and my clothes were all hand-me-downs from friends, and. . . fuck it, yeah. Sometimes I do wear lipstick. And that’s so beside the point.
I tried to summon a laugh but, “You’re so off, it’s amazing,” came out with only a weak snicker. I was full of ammunition, but shooting blanks.
What else could I do? Spout off my resume? List every female scientist I know? Challenge him to an integration bee?
I’ve been replaying all day. Suggestions are welcome.
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