There is a park near where I work where I sometimes eat lunch. At this park there is a story scrawled in sharpie and ballpoint pen on the lunch tables where I eat.
The story goes that there is this girl named Johanna. Johanna loves this guy named Chris Mendoza. She loves him so much that she has dedicated some of her time over the period of weeks writing about her love next to such artistic masterpieces as the anatomically exaggerrated penis, rhymes about Nantucket, and phone numbers someone looking for a good time might call. Johanna is carrying or has given birth to Chris’s baby, which she so creatively named Chris Mendoza, Jr.
In an interesting development a couple weeks ago, Johanna’s writing has been scratched out and is now accompanied by writing from some girl named Rochelle. Rochelle not-so-kindly informs Johanna that her advances are not appreciated and that bad things will come to her if she persists in trying to take “my man.”
There is no comment from Chris as of the writing of this post.
There is a happy ending for Johanna, forever. She has now declared her undying love for a fellow by the name of Joe. This love appears to be reciprocated as “Johanna [heart] Joe” writings are accompanied by “Joe [heart] Johanna” in slightly different handwriting. It’s possible that she got someone else to write that to give strangers the impression that her love is this time reciprocated, but I am not quite sure that anyone is that pathetic.
Unfortunately, some time last week a woman by the name of Cassie declares that Joe is, in fact, hers. Her use of the word “still” in reference to her possession of Joe suggests that perhaps Joe is of a different mind on the subject and that Cassie’s possession of Joe has, in fact, expired.
There is no comment from Joe as of the writing of this post.
Judging from her grammar, spelling, and vernacular, a reader gets the sense that Johanna is not the sharpest tool in the shed, though Cassie’s education appears to be left even more in desire of substance. Rochelle’s vocabulary appears to be the most thorough with her creative suggestions as to what happens to young women that cross her by trying to steal her man. What education she has, however, appears to be buried in whatever the female version of machismo is.
My coworker Pat believes that there is a moral to the story: Get an education or end up pleading for the father of your children to take you back with a sharpie on a park picnic table.