Trayvon Martin and I Ain't Sh*t

I recently told a friend one of these stories: I live in a "nice" building. I work hard. You know I work hard. My logic is (naïve alert in 5, 4, 3, 2 … ) "Well, there can't be any fear of any type in this building" — you've got to go through hell and high water just to get accepted to live here, like it's Dartmouth or UPenn. Secondly, there are, like, five to eight guards on duty 24/7, so this spot is beyond safe. Like, Oscar winners and kids of royalty and sports guys and mafia goombahs live here. One night, I get in the elevator, and just as the door closes this beautiful woman gets on. Because of a pain in the arse card device you have to use to get to your floor, it just makes it an easier protocol for whoever is pressing floors to take everyone's request, like when you are at the window of a drive-thru. So I press my floor number, and I ask her, "What floor, ma'am?" (Yes, I say "ma'am," because … sigh, anyway.) She says nothing, stands in the corner. Mind you, I just discovered the Candy Crush app, so if anything, I'm the rude one because I'm more obsessed with winning this particular level than anything else. In my head I'm thinking, There's no way I can be a threat to a woman this fine if I'm buried deep in this game — so surely she feels safe.

The humor comes in that I thought she was on my floor because she never acknowledged my floor request. (She was also bangin', so inside I was like, "Dayuuuuuuuuuuum, she lives on my floor? *bow chicka wowow*!" Instantly I was on some "What dessert am I welcome-committee-ing her with?" Anywho, the door opens, and I waited to let her off first because I am a gentleman. (Old me would've rushed first, thus not putting me in the position to have to follow her, God forbid if she, too, makes a left and it seems like I'm following her.) So door opens and I flirt, "Ladies first." She says, "This is not my floor." Then I assume she is missing her building card, so I pulled my card out to try to press her floor yet again. She says, "That's okay."

Then it hit me: "Oh God, she purposely held that information back." The door closed. It was a "pie in the face" moment. I laughed at it. Sort of.

Inside I cried. But if I cried at every insensitive act that goes on in the name of safety, I'd have to be committed to a psych ward. I've just taught myself throughout the years to just accept it and maybe even see it as funny. But it kept eating at me (Well, I guess she never watched the show … My English was super clear … I called her "ma'am" like I was Webster … Those that know you know that you're cool, but you definitely know that you are a walking