A Coke and a Marriage Proposal

Several years ago (I refuse to say how many), I was a student at Georgia State University in downtown Atlanta.  During my first two semesters there, I took day classes, and one semester in particular, I had a two hour break between classes.  Being that I did not live anywhere remotely close to campus (or downtown even), I often spent my break eating a quick lunch and completing my homework and/or studying.


During my tenure at Georgia State, the World of Coke and Underground Atlanta still existed in the same vicinity.  In fact, there was a plaza with a water fountain and benches between the two that backed up to Johnny Rockets.  This is where I often took my break.


Now, on to the story...


Here I am on what is the very last day of August sitting on a bench, minding my own business and studying for a Spanish test.  Mind you, it is VERY hot in Atlanta in the month of August.  (Well, in all actuality, it's always hot in Atlanta, but especially so during the Summer).  An African-American man in a brightly colored sweater, think 80s style...black sweater with brightly-colored swirls, approached me.  May I please stress again that HE WAS WEARING A SWEATER!  In a heavy English accent, he asked me if he could buy me a Coca-Cola.  I looked around the plaza.  No cameras, not even a sideways glance from another student or business person sitting on an adjacent bench.


"No," I replied.  "I don't like Coke."


He proceeded to walk over to the soda machines outside the doors at the entryway to The World of Coke and purchased two 20 oz. bottles of Coke anyway.  Then he returned to my bench and sat down beside me.  He handed me the coke, which I simply placed on the bench between the two of us.  Seriously, was I in a Coke commercial?  What the hell was going on?


"I am from Nigeria," he stated.  I nodded my head, but did not look up from my Spanish book.  You have to understand, I wasn't being uncompassionate, it's just that when you're in Atlanta, you meet a lot of odd people...and unfortunately, everyone has a story.  The sad thing is, most are fake.


I continued studying my Spanish.  He continued to speak.  "There was a war in my native country.  My mother was a lawyer, my father a doctor.  Both were killed.  I moved here and am staying in a boarding house...I rent a room...I go on dates, but the girls are not wife material...you seem like wife material..."


WAIT?  WHAT?  I'm vaguely hearing the words coming out of his mouth and through my ears, but certainly not listening.  This catches my attention.  (He hasn't touched his bottle of Coke, by the way).  I'm marriage material?  A girl sitting on a bench studying Spanish outside of The World Coke and Underground Atlanta is marriage material?  How on Earth can you just tell something like that by looking at somebody?  And why was he wearing that awful sweater in the heat of Summer?  While all of these questions are running through my head and I'm continuing to pretend to read my Spanish book at the same time, I hear the last of his one-sided conversation.


"So, would you like to marry me so I can get my green card and stay here in the United States of America permanently?  I only have one room currently since it's a boarding house, but I'm sure if I had legal citizenship I could find employment."


At this point, I didn't even care.  I handed him back the bottle of Coke he had purchased for me out of the vending machine (still unopened) and packed up and left.  I definitely think I got punk'd.


Still a funny story (to me, anyway),
Freeway Fairington