“Yeah… we had fun,” I said
“Good. Did you fix your boots yet?” Mom asked. I had called
her on my walk home from the subway.
“No, mother. I’m poor.”
“You’re not that poor!”
“First – yes I am. I hate getting paid every two weeks! And
second – ” I swiveled around and glanced up and down the block. I had reached
one of my safety “check points.” Two people behind me, one to the right. No one
on my heels.
Check point one: PASS.
“ – and secondly, I don’t even know where to go to fix those
boots. Everyone in Astoria’s “gotta a guy.” I gotta bagel guy, but that’s about
it.”
“Oooh maa gosh… Britney! Fix those boots.”
“I will mother.” I said, glancing around one last time before
heading down my street. A few feet behind me, an Unknown had snuck up. He walked
quietly and held a briefcase. But he was too close… and why hadn’t I seen him
before?
Check point two: FAIL.
I wish I could tell you there was a method to my madness,
and that I knew the Unknown was going to be problem because of facts A, B, and
C, but the truth is I always go with my gut. And the gut said stop walking.
So before turning down my street, I veered to the left and
leaned against the wall of a large apartment building.
“Can you believe how much we spent on those boots?” I asked
my mother, who was happily prattling on the phone. I wanted to look busy even if
I was acutely aware of the Unknown. Trying to run home would only lead
something sketchy to my doorstep. And if any funny business happened, big
apartment buildings almost always have cameras. This was an ideal spot.
Did I mention my gut had specifically said stop walking? I
was listening.
“Oh I know!” Mom said. “And to think…” but I didn’t hear the
rest of what she was saying. The 40-something year old man with a briefcase was passing by me… and then he stopped.
A chill went from the tips of my fingers to my feet.
He was looking at me, but just barely. It’s difficult to
explain, but the Unknown appeared to be staring right through me, like I was an
apparition he’d accidently spotted but could no longer see. There was no
expression on his face, which was about three feet from my own.
So I did what any gal would do after 30 seconds of
awkwardness.
“Shoo! SHHHHOO!!” I said, flicking my free hand at him like he was an unwanted
fly in summertime. He blinked repeatedly, and stepped away from me, suddenly
coherent after his trance-like state.
“Britney who are you talking to…”
The man began to walk away.
“Shush Mother. I’m kinda… having… a moment,” I said through
gritted teeth. I needed a weapon. Where were my keys? Purses are always
ridiculously messy at the wrong moment. With one hand on the phone and another
in my bag, I watched as the man turned to face me again, this time about 10
feet away.
“Well! Well wait, what’s happening.”
“Tell ya in a sec. Just keep talking.”
"Okay hum… so I think that…” she continued, as I stopped
digging in my purse. The Unknown was oddly standing in the middle of road,
facing me again.
“What do YOU WANT!?” I screamed at him. He backed away, not
taking his eyes off me now. It was only 10pm and there was a family walking
down an adjacent street. This was such odd behavior; I couldn’t categorize it.
And I was hungry…. Really hungry. This freak was the only thing between me, and
my baked potato.
“Brit what’s happening?”
“Mom… shh. Someone followed me. Now I’m annoyed 'cause
I’m starving. But I can’t go home 'cause he’ll see where I live. Stay on phone.”
“Oh maa gosh... uh, yeah. I'm not going anywhere,” the sassy Southern accent came ringing through the
telephone.
Unknown was now across the street. I stood directly on the
other side, staring at him and debating my options.
He set his briefcase down.
I pulled my bag closer.
He began to dig in his coat pocket.
I began digging in my purse. And then a thought struck me –
I had a knife! HA!
“What are you doing now?” Mom asked, almost whispering.
“Looking for my knife.”
“What!? You have a knife??
“Ha. Yeah. Ironically enough, I found it last night.” It had been resting, blade open, in the hall closet of my apartment. And now I had the
heavy object in my hand. The weapon was probably a relic from my old roommate,
but she wouldn’t mind me carrying it around for a bit.
“Well…” my mother said, “I don’t know if I’m more nervous
for you – or for that man!” she continued with a little laugh. I
couldn’t help but chuckle at her confident one-liner.
Guys, it wasn’t graceful, but it worked. With one hand
holding a phone I could barely open the old blade. Suddenly it popped into
place. Striking a pose similar to Peter pan, I raised the knife in the air. The
street light overhead made the metal gleam.
What they don’t tell you in the movies is what to do next. I
didn’t really want to use the knife.
So I waved the blade back and forth through the air, in a “just-try-to
mess-with-me-because-I-might-West-Side-Story-dance-my-way-out-of-this-situation”
kind of way.
This method worked surprisingly well. The Unknown DID NOT
like my knife. He pivoted around so quickly; I couldn’t help but think maybe he
wanted to dance/rumble too. But still he searched for something in his coat
pocket. This is the moment when my gut began speaking to me again: it said run.
I clumsily closed the knife, slicing my finger in the
process (nube mistake), and tossed it in my pocket. The gut and I both knew if Unknown
were reaching for a gun, my knife would be no match. While he was still turned away from me, I ran down the
street, protected from his view by two large moving trucks. Now even if he were
looking for me, it would be very difficult to see my exact whereabouts. I
peered between the vehicles, and saw the man quickly grab his briefcase and
take off down the road. I couldn’t see much but I knew he wasn’t coming my way.
West Side Story Peter Pan had scared him! Or at least
confused him enough to make an escape.
“Mom?”
“Yes?!?” She said.
“Hey, I’m home.”
(Editor’s Note: These methods are not conducive to all
situations. Readers should not believe they can scare off all Unknowns,
but should instead follow their gut. Sometimes even Peter Pan needed help from
the Lost Boys. RIP Rufio.)
Menacing litte Peter Pan blade, isn't it?
The Time I Pulled a Knife on Someone
