Suspicious Mind

I have a problem with trusting strangers. I mean, their very nature is implicit in the title. They're not referred to as nicepeoplers or notatallweirders, they're strangers. Strange.

This week, I was taking the bus into town with a colleague and a group of kids were being obnoxiously loud and causing me to retaliate by rolling my eyes, almost in their direction. All of a sudden, the comforting wall between us was torn down when one of them called over to us.

'Excuse me, excuse me' but not in the accent that those words imply.

My immediate thought was, he's going to stick a knife in my gut and ask me if I have an iPhone. Then it was, please don't let me die on a bendy bus.

Begrudgingly we turned around and the least likely question emerged.

'Does the desert get cold at night?'

My mind started working overtime, trying to think of how this could be some sort of joke question. The vocal equivalent of when someone pretends to show you something on your chest before hitting you in the face.

My colleague answered (my knowledge of the desert is as absent as my knowledge of musicals or Darfur) and a bizarre, friendly discussion started on why the weather in the desert might change and then also why the sky was blue.

I felt guilty. These kids were more socially adept than I was and meant no ill whatsoever. I'd been reading too many shock stories of evil hoodies and knives that look like pencils.

I do that a lot. I generally expect the worst from strangers. Someone will approach me on the street and before they've had the chance to ask for the time, I've already told them, abruptly, that I don't have any change. I could blame my mistrust on how decaying our society is getting but the truth is I've always been pretty bad.

6 years ago a friend and I were driving back from the cinema late at night. We reached some traffic lights and the driver on our left was making wild gestures our way, well pointing and moving his hands about. Immediately enraged, we started making gestures back. Convinced he was some sort of pikey, hoping for a race, our anger was steadily rising.

As the lights went green and we drove off, we finally managed to decipher the word he was shouting our way. Lights. Our lights weren't turned on. We lowered our middle fingers and sheepishly looked forward, right, backwards, any possible direction but left.

It could be argued that this sort of attitude is beneficial to things like, you know, staying alive and not being shot. But it's also a little dramatic. I don't live in Gotham City. I'm not Jodie Foster in The Brave One. Not everyone is a villain.

I'm gonna try this thing of being more open. Maybe even expecting the best out of people, rather than the worst. So next time someone in my neighbourhood of Hackney approaches me, I will welcome him with open arms. I'll smile as he stabs me and takes my wallet, knowing that I'm taking a step in the right direction.