Little Miss. Irony

Story Sent in by Christina:

Brad messaged me online. This was back several years ago, when I was into alternative bands a bit more than I am now. He was the front man for a four-member ensemble that played locally. He invited me out to hear him perform a couple of times and I liked what I heard. After each concert, Brad and I would hang out for a bit, but there were always other people around.

Finally, he asked me out on a proper date. We arranged to meet at a restaurant, and when the night came, I arrived first, saw him park his car across the street, and watched him jog across to meet me. But we didn't go in. Instead, he handed me a thick stack of his band's promotional stickers.

"Tonight, we stick them up!" he said, then unpeeled one and stuck it to the side of the nearby building.

It wasn't what I had in mind for the evening, and I was a bit hungry, but I didn't see anything wrong with helping him out for a little bit.

"I've got some great ideas, though," he said, "We don't just stick them onto buildings, bus stops, and newspaper machines — we stick them to trees! Sidewalks! Make them impossible for people to ignore!"

So saying, he stuck another to the sidewalk. He then hurried off to a nearby mailbox and stuck one on there. Then, he stuck one to a car's passenger window.

"What are you doing?" I asked him, "What if they don't want a sticker on their car?"

"Why wouldn't they?" he asked in response, just before sticking another one to the car's hood, "Our music's great."

He walked on, and my doubts about the evening, and Brad, grew. He stuck stickers on everything that we passed: hydrants, telephone poles, locked bikes, and storefronts.

After a few more minutes, he turned to me. "You know, I couldn't help but notice that you haven't stuck a single sticker up anywhere. May I ask what you're waiting for?"

I replied, "I just don't want to deface things. Maybe we can go to dinner."

In response, he unpeeled one and stuck it, hard, onto my right breast.

I slapped his hand away. "What do you think you're doing? Don't you touch me."

He said, "Then help me. Or I'll do it again. And again. And again. Got it?" He gave me such a smarmy smile that I had it in mind to throw the stickers at his face and storm off. But then I thought better of it.

"Fine," I acquiesced, "I'll head down this side street and put them up."

"A side street? I don't know if that's prominent enough."

I said, "By the time I'm done, it'll be prominent."

He liked that. "Go for it. I'll meet you back here in fifteen. Go!" He slapped my rear hard and ran off, down the main road, sticking stickers as he went.

As for me, I returned to his car, unpeeled all the stickers I could, and stuck them everywhere there was space, without covering either of the mirrors or vital window zones. My hands trembled the whole time, but all in all I must have stuck almost a hundred all over his vehicle. I then stuck the remaining stack under his windshield wipers and ran back to my car.

As we had only communicated through email, he didn't have my number. I received two from him not long after with subject lines too rude for me to repeat. Suffice it to say that I didn't read his messages and I certainly never met up with him or attended another of his shows ever again.