This afternoon I was standing outside of my apartment building...smoking.
Yeah, I know. It sucks that I'm back on the sticks, but something kicked in a couple of weeks ago and I found myself dying for one...now I'm finding myself dying for them on a regular basis. All. Over. Again. Hopefully, next week I'll get back to a slightly healthier passion - overeating - so I can get off the cancer sticks.
Anyway, my super has asked me to stand closer to the street when I smoke - and - despite my previous misgivings and bitchings about it - today I complied. So, I stood next to a lamppost, right on the curb. As soon as I sparked the stick, a man came up to me.
I gave him a confused look and turned over my shoulder. No one was there - in fact, no one else was around at all. I should note: there is a Police Station on my block, so there very well could have been a hoard of folks who would answer to "Detective" amassed behind me.
"Detective?" he asked again. "Aren't you a detective?"
I nervously chuckled and said "Um...no...I'm just...smoking."
"Oh, sorry," he apologized. "I thought I knew you."
As he walked down the street, I considered what I was wearing. I was not in some Cagney and Lacey style pant-suit. I was not in some Police Woman Black Party drag. I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and a dirty baseball cap.
Urban homosexual in studied man-drag? Definitely.
Angie Dickinson as Sergeant Suzanne "Pepper" Anderson? Not even close.