Just before noon on this sweltering Sunday I was offloading from a bus in a suburban strip mall parking lot. As I walked across the lot I noticed that I was being followed to the bus stop serviced by the line that runs perpendicular to the one I had just used. I looked out of the corner of my eye and caught a curved hip, indicating that the person behind me was not male—or not very male in any case—and would not be a threat.

A few minutes later, the young lady followed me up the walk to the stop as I stood and read Lothrop Stoddard’s 1920 eugenics screed. She passed me and sat down on the four-person bench. We were the only ones at the stop. I decided to take a seat, being careful to leave two empty seats between us, so that she would not think I was a pervert. I had looked at her twice, which was quite bad enough.

The young lady was between 17 and 20, dressed in a striped shirt and gray sweat pants, with sensible cotton sneakers. She was not, like most Harm City teens, attired like a barmaid at a strip club. I read and she texted on her smart phone which was held in her lap.

After a few more minutes a man crossed the street from the strip mall on the other side. He definitely seemed to me to be West African, and was dressed in clean pressed jeans, and a fully buttoned short sleeve summer shirt. I would have to guess his age at thirty. Physically he was impressive, built very much like MMA contender Anthony ‘Rumble’ Johnson. He stopped in front of the bench, looked at the girl, then looked at me, then looked back at the girl. Thinking that he wanted a seat until the bus arrived I pulled my right leg in, so that he might sit next to me rather than the young lady. What thirty year old man would want to give the impression that he was trying to get to know a girl in her teens?

The man took a half seat next to the girl. His back was facing me squarely, and only the right side of his butt was on the seat. I leaned back so I could see his face, as this was pretty troubling behavior. His knee touched hers, and he stared menacingly into her face. My rule in a situation like this is that, if the lady asks for help I will speak on her behalf. If he assaults her I will assault him. I was a little apprehensive with this guy, as there was no way I was beating him with my hands, and I do not want to do time for stabbing someone.

He spoke to her in a low voice, a short sentence that consisted of either three or four words, intentionally keeping his tone down, I believed, to avoid my hearing it. She was pretty and light skinned, and crinkled her nose in disgust. She then raised her smart phone to act as a barrier between her face and his, and looked half away.

He then pushed his face a little closer, jutting his jaw, which is a classic sign of aggression, and repeated what sounded like the same mumbled sentence as before. I closed my book and reversed the grip on my pen so that I could ice-pick him laterally in the left side of his neck. She did not even waste another sneer, but drew her phone closer, to more fully block him from her view.

He stood, looked down at her over his shoulder in a clear attitude of disgust, and then walked off. He did not slink, or strut, or slouch, but marched, like he owned Baltimore County. He wasn’t even a bus patron, but had gone a half block out of his way to come make whatever proposal he uttered in his bestial manner. I know that a nearby apartment is shared by few West African immigrants, and I once spent some time on this stop giving directions to a very polite ‘Ghana boy’ who was headed to an Army recruiting office. Having worked with some Ghana boys I have found them to be very polite with men and very rude to women, so I’m going to guess that as his nation. Liberians—the other dominant African immigrant population in this area—tend to be more respectful of women.

This was not a typical pickup. I have seen hundreds of young Baltimore men blatantly proposition females who they had never met, but never with this type of predatory body language. The body language I saw this man use was right out of a pre-fight stare down. I sincerely hope he is crushed on the job by heavy equipment or flattened by a city bus as soon as possible. We really don’t need him anywhere but prison or the morgue.