Portraits of Baltimore County: The Wrath of the Receptionist

She’ll forward all your calls AND spit in your coffee. Do not fuck with her, man.

I saw her in person. It was during a smoke break at work, out by the dumpster. She spewed forth such shaking, vitriolic ire that spit flew in many directions and her voice reached an octave only select breeds of dogs can hear.

She was a certain kind of Baltimore girl, a downeast On The Bay take-no-shit Baltimore girl, the kind of girl that will stop in her tracks, roll up her sleeves, and beat you until you cry. The kind of girl who’s always itching for a fight, always dialed to 11, always done taking shit from you. “I’m done taking shit from you,” she’ll say.

I had an encounter with this certain kind of Baltimore girl a couple of months ago, driving to Emily Flake’s booksigning at Atomic Books, in Hampden. My last-minute decision to make a right hand turn pinged the Pissiness Meter buried in her subconscious, and off she went, that’s all she wrote, please send flowers. Epithets, curse words, fist-shaking. Steam rolled from her ears. Flames blazed from her nostrils. Her golden chains and many-hooped ears began to glow. The opening of the car door combined with the blank, dead heat in her eyes convinced me that no red light in the history of traffic semaphores had power enough to keep me within striking distance.

This girl, this certain kind of Baltimore girl, is so tough that to look at her will make you cower. You fear for your as-yet-intact face, your hair which is currently still attached to your head. Words which only Satan himself dare speak froth forward from her lips.

No, you do not want to anger this certain kind of Baltimore girl. And if this certain kind of Baltimore girl is your receptionist, I suggest you bring your own coffee and field your own telephone calls.

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