Nocturnal Prey In NY
Posted: Tue May 15, 2012 7:44 am
I have happily declared since 2002 that I haven't had a speck of trouble with my fellow human beings while out on the road, camping wherever I like, conversing with all number of local law enforcement at all hours of the day or night, but it only takes that one time, doesn't it?
While in my Homeless Banker Sleeps In His Lexus mode here in upstate New York, I crashed out in the abandoned old store WalMart parking lot because it did not have annoying LIGHTS. Nesting in the back seat, I awaken in the dark to a poorly idling V8 engine with bad exhaust, the sound of a radio, the clap of a lousy metal glove box slamming shut. My heart is pounding now.
Slowly I inch my head up to see a pick up truck parked diagonally across the front of my car. This is a several hundred parking spaces lot, and I am the only one parked there . . . was the only one parked there. His proximity is extremely bad, in the body language of parked cars. It suggests intent.
I tell my heart to please settle down, we need to conserve our energy. The figure silhouetted in the truck is rocking back and forth. My imagination decides he is having an earnest soliloquy, "please don't kill again, please don't kill again". My heart responds to my imagination. He lights a cigarette in the darkness. The radio falls silent. I see a beer bottle profile hoisted to his lips. I am terrified. My keys are in the center console, so far, I have been motionless. His face turns to look in my car, illuminated by another drag of his cigarette. He is wearing an orange jacket, and I hate him with a deep deep loathing, I am his prisoner and I long-ago swore off being anybody's prisoner ever again. He turns and bends down towards the passenger floorboards, "to pick up the axe," suggests my helpful imagination. In that brief space of time, I whip open the console and grab the keys (my fiercesome weapon of choice against axe murderers in pick-up trucks) and curl back down. So insane is my terror at this point, that I am reverting to hopeful infant where it is my prayer that if I cannot see him, he cannot see me, so I hide my face behind the edge of the sleeping bag. My heart actually follows this wishful thinking, and settles down a tad. Now what? I peer up and this guy is snorting coke off a cell phone screen. This is not good. My imagination says "he is working up a good rage against life, it will be all my fault when he buries the axe in my face and steals the $24.00 from my Lexus-driving banker's wallet." Now he is ping-ponging his head against the headrest and the steering wheel. Great time to review my life, was it worthwhile? What's it like to not have a wife and children grieve my violent end? Will I slip into the vast forgotten past quickly? I peek again and he is down at the floorboard again, musta dropped the axe, clumsy dumbass, so I take this opportunity to sit up and hide my half-verticalness behind the jackets hanging from the left rear grab handle. I hate this bastard more than anyone I have ever hated. My cell phone is in the locked glove box with my wallet. Can't get to it in my still-hopeful notion that he doesn't really know that there is a person in this car he has blocked off. I so very have to pee.
I have two potential paths to the driver's seat.
One is over the center console with a difficult leg slide down to the pedals ("do not damage the cup holders or spill the half full can of Diet Coke," my last words on this mortal coil)
The other is to spill out of the rear door and whip into the driver's seat, but the driver's door is locked, and I would have to waste precious time unlocking the door "hang on mister, don't even wield that axe until I have the door open."
I hear the door of the truck creak and pop open, and I wrap myself in the jacket with pounding heart again hoping that if I don't see him, he won't see me. I am almost having a flashback to places I never want to go again, I can feel it, a spastic full-body seizure, I wonder if this is just what all animals have to do to fight to the death, I am ready to give this stupid wreck of a human being as good as he delivers. I am sober. I am way sharp. My muscles are in better shape than usual. But, my pounding heart is a pansy-ass frightened little wuss that will stop cold if he says boo. His orange jacket, illuminated by a far away street lamp, fills across the right rear door glass. Did I mention that I am in my socks? I am ready to kill first. With my keys.
He rummaged in the bed of the truck. "Shovel, lime, rope," my imagination chimed in, but it was just a monster 24 pack of beer (beer? in the bed of the truck?). He gets back in his truck and slams down another beer and another cigarette, and just sits there. He just sits there like a damn cat holding down the mouse and acting bored. What is this? Some sort of perverse game? Is he waiting because he has all night to build up to his murderous rampage on my car with me in it?
I slowly unhook the jacket and shirt from the left grab handle and try to move it exactly towards his line of sight so that it will not appear to be moving. I need unfettered exit from the left rear door. That bastard! Why did he park across the front of my car? I have only a foot to back up to the curb, then swerve to clear his truck. I note to myself that my car will start more quickly than his truck, and will be able to hammer the potholes in the curve out of here better than a light solid axle truck. I just want to sleep! says my tired brain.
... to be continued
While in my Homeless Banker Sleeps In His Lexus mode here in upstate New York, I crashed out in the abandoned old store WalMart parking lot because it did not have annoying LIGHTS. Nesting in the back seat, I awaken in the dark to a poorly idling V8 engine with bad exhaust, the sound of a radio, the clap of a lousy metal glove box slamming shut. My heart is pounding now.
Slowly I inch my head up to see a pick up truck parked diagonally across the front of my car. This is a several hundred parking spaces lot, and I am the only one parked there . . . was the only one parked there. His proximity is extremely bad, in the body language of parked cars. It suggests intent.
I tell my heart to please settle down, we need to conserve our energy. The figure silhouetted in the truck is rocking back and forth. My imagination decides he is having an earnest soliloquy, "please don't kill again, please don't kill again". My heart responds to my imagination. He lights a cigarette in the darkness. The radio falls silent. I see a beer bottle profile hoisted to his lips. I am terrified. My keys are in the center console, so far, I have been motionless. His face turns to look in my car, illuminated by another drag of his cigarette. He is wearing an orange jacket, and I hate him with a deep deep loathing, I am his prisoner and I long-ago swore off being anybody's prisoner ever again. He turns and bends down towards the passenger floorboards, "to pick up the axe," suggests my helpful imagination. In that brief space of time, I whip open the console and grab the keys (my fiercesome weapon of choice against axe murderers in pick-up trucks) and curl back down. So insane is my terror at this point, that I am reverting to hopeful infant where it is my prayer that if I cannot see him, he cannot see me, so I hide my face behind the edge of the sleeping bag. My heart actually follows this wishful thinking, and settles down a tad. Now what? I peer up and this guy is snorting coke off a cell phone screen. This is not good. My imagination says "he is working up a good rage against life, it will be all my fault when he buries the axe in my face and steals the $24.00 from my Lexus-driving banker's wallet." Now he is ping-ponging his head against the headrest and the steering wheel. Great time to review my life, was it worthwhile? What's it like to not have a wife and children grieve my violent end? Will I slip into the vast forgotten past quickly? I peek again and he is down at the floorboard again, musta dropped the axe, clumsy dumbass, so I take this opportunity to sit up and hide my half-verticalness behind the jackets hanging from the left rear grab handle. I hate this bastard more than anyone I have ever hated. My cell phone is in the locked glove box with my wallet. Can't get to it in my still-hopeful notion that he doesn't really know that there is a person in this car he has blocked off. I so very have to pee.
I have two potential paths to the driver's seat.
One is over the center console with a difficult leg slide down to the pedals ("do not damage the cup holders or spill the half full can of Diet Coke," my last words on this mortal coil)
The other is to spill out of the rear door and whip into the driver's seat, but the driver's door is locked, and I would have to waste precious time unlocking the door "hang on mister, don't even wield that axe until I have the door open."
I hear the door of the truck creak and pop open, and I wrap myself in the jacket with pounding heart again hoping that if I don't see him, he won't see me. I am almost having a flashback to places I never want to go again, I can feel it, a spastic full-body seizure, I wonder if this is just what all animals have to do to fight to the death, I am ready to give this stupid wreck of a human being as good as he delivers. I am sober. I am way sharp. My muscles are in better shape than usual. But, my pounding heart is a pansy-ass frightened little wuss that will stop cold if he says boo. His orange jacket, illuminated by a far away street lamp, fills across the right rear door glass. Did I mention that I am in my socks? I am ready to kill first. With my keys.
He rummaged in the bed of the truck. "Shovel, lime, rope," my imagination chimed in, but it was just a monster 24 pack of beer (beer? in the bed of the truck?). He gets back in his truck and slams down another beer and another cigarette, and just sits there. He just sits there like a damn cat holding down the mouse and acting bored. What is this? Some sort of perverse game? Is he waiting because he has all night to build up to his murderous rampage on my car with me in it?
I slowly unhook the jacket and shirt from the left grab handle and try to move it exactly towards his line of sight so that it will not appear to be moving. I need unfettered exit from the left rear door. That bastard! Why did he park across the front of my car? I have only a foot to back up to the curb, then swerve to clear his truck. I note to myself that my car will start more quickly than his truck, and will be able to hammer the potholes in the curve out of here better than a light solid axle truck. I just want to sleep! says my tired brain.
... to be continued