The Mystery of the Balding Anchovy

Like all stories written by women, my story is about a boy. But, don’t worry, like all my stories, it’s nothing sexual.

I never officially met this man, we just happen to work together. I just know his name, sometimes teach classes with him, and that his wife is having a baby, and he wouldn’t look at me if I was doing the macarena naked, and knows my name is something with an A.

Despite his status as an English teacher, he often consults others before attempting.

At his best, he has the sex appeal of someone recovering from food poisoning. And at his worst, he is imagined as an anchovy by small children. (They also believe him to be bald because he is “too tall for hair.”) He attacks food gifts similar to a baby discovering their own reflection, and has old man grunts when forced to stand, or sit.

I know what you are thinking—Amy, this man sounds perfect, just take that lankly old man to pound town. And let me stop you. Because 1: No. And 2: the fascination is nothing sexual. Not everything needs to have sexual tension you pervs.

Let me also add that this mystery will never be solved. Because that would require interactions with the Balding Anchovy. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had some great interactions. Maybe, one day we will have a Freaky Friday situation, and by the end we would finally understand each other.

We are getting there, everyday is a little more, then a lot less.

One night he said, “Bye,” when I left.

Two weeks later, he called me Ally.

The day after that, five words: “You need to make copies.”

Until finally, something like a conversation.

[memory music]

I was sitting at my desk, doing nothing.

When I felt it getting darker.

He was standing at my desk, starring at my name tag.

Until finally he gained the courage to say the word.

I turned, and he looked like a child after you tell them you ate their Halloween candy.

He turned away and spoke in Korean to the others for a few minutes.

I’m still sitting here. Doing nothing. Waiting.

Finally, he remembers that I’m there, and says, “The gas man needs to check your house. I need your door code.”

So many words. I finally realized he can speak English.

I gave him the door code.

He said, “Thank you.”

More words!

We haven’t spoken since. The mystery remains unsolved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 160: No words. More tomorrow.

 

 

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