by Jeff Strand
I get into my car and promptly vomit all over my steering wheel.
And then I cry.
* * *
Obviously, I want to clean up the mess as soon as possible, but it's very important to me that Dirk or any of my former co-workers not find me in the parking lot with tears streaming down my face and puke on the steering wheel. So I drive away from the building, hoping that this is my low point in life, although I suppose a police officer could pull me over for some sort of traffic violation and knock me a couple of notches lower.
I successfully make it the four blocks to the nearest restaurant without seeing red and blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. After I've cleaned up my car and enjoyed a meal of nutrient-rich greasy fried chicken, I feel slightly better. Yes, I wish that the encounter had ended with Dirk weeping from my blistering wit, followed by a roundhouse kick to the throat, but still, this is much better than being at that job ten years from now.
I'm not sure what to do with the rest of my day. I don't feel like going home.
I think I'll just walk somewhere. Nowhere.
So I pop a pair of headphones into my cell phone, set my eclectic music library on random play, and walk. I crank the music up loud in an effort to drown out my internal monologue. I'll deal with my future tomorrow.
I walk for hours. I stop once to get a bottle of water and a candy bar, and a second time about fifteen minutes after that when I see a woman being mugged.
CHAPTER TWO
I've never been in this park before. Under normal circumstances, it's not the kind of place I'd be walking when it's starting to get dark.
The woman is pressed up against a tree. I can't tell how old she is from this far away, about two hundred feet. Her long red hair is striking. She's at gunpoint. I can't hear what the mugger is saying to her, but presumably it's something impolite.
I pause my music and touch the phone icon to call the police.
That was a mistake. The lit screen captures the mugger's attention. He swings the gun in my direction. "Drop the phone!" he shouts.
I have no idea how good of a shot he is. In theory, if I turn and run, there's more of a chance that he'll miss than that I'll take a bullet in the back. He may not shoot at all. Most likely, he won't even finish mugging the woman; he'll just flee before the cops arrive.
I drop my phone.
"Get over here!" he shouts.
Walking closer to him seems like an insanely bad idea. Does he want to murder the witness, or does he just want to steal my wallet? I could try to reason with him, convince him that he's chosen the wrong path in life and that he'd be much happier not mugging women in the park, but after the disaster with Dirk, I'm not confident in my verbal abilities.
I can't just run. It's not as if I could get help in time to do the woman any good. And I don't want headlines to read Local Chickenshit Leaves Woman To Die.
With sweat pouring down my sides, I walk forward.
The woman knocks the man to the ground. He lands on his ass.
She hit him with something, but she did it so quickly that I'm not sure what she used.
When she cracks him over the skull with it, I see that it's a wooden pole, maybe three feet long. The mugger flops over, hopefully just unconscious.
I pick up my phone and hurry over to her. "Are you okay?" I ask.
She's beautiful. Maybe thirty years old. She has on a short black dress and is wearing a huge backpack.
"I wish you'd stayed put," she says.
"Why?"
She gestures to some trees. "Because there are three more of them."
I'm unhappy to see three additional muggers step into view, not even ten feet away. They're young, around college-aged, although I doubt they're pursuing higher education. They each take out a switchblade and snap it open, moving with such synchronicity that I'm positive it's something they practiced.
"How about you make this easy for us?" asks one of them. He's wearing a leather jacket even though it's a very warm April evening. He points his blade at the woman. "You drop your backpack on the ground." Then he points the blade at me. "And you drop your wallet."
Thank God. He only wants to rob us. I take out my wallet, hold it up to the mugger to show him that I'm not going to try any funny business, and toss it onto the ground between us.
"Your phone, too."
I toss the phone next to my wallet.
The woman hasn't moved.
"Backpack," the mugger says, waving the blade at her.
The woman shakes her head.
"You kidding me?" the mugger asks. "Are you trying to get shot?"
"You don't have a gun. You would have shown it to me by now. Your friend had the only gun; that's why he was the one to accost me. The rest of you were watching in case matters went awry. Which they have."
"Well, we've got three knives."
"I know."
"You think we won't cut you because you're a woman?"
"Not at all. The last quality I see in you is chivalry."
"Backpack. Drop it. Now."
"You should do what he says," I tell the woman, somehow believing that I'm being helpful.
"No."
The mugger shrugs. "All right. I tried to be cool about this, but you had to go and—"
His head flies back as the pole smacks into the middle of his forehead. He stumbles backwards a few steps but doesn't fall. Before the stunned expression has left his face, she's struck him three more times. Now he falls.
One of the other muggers slashes at her. She lets out a wince as his blade slices across her upper left arm.
I should do something.
She swings the pole at his legs. The mugger yelps and falls onto his back. He throws his knife at her. She moves her pole in an attempt to deflect it, but the throw is so off-target that it sails harmlessly past her.
She whacks him three more times. It looks like it really freaking hurts.
The last mugger quickly scoops up my wallet and phone, then runs off through the trees into the darkness.
"Are you going to chase after him?" the woman asks me.
"Uh, he still has a knife."
"All right." She uses her free hand to smooth down her dress, and then gives me a polite nod. "Thank you for your attempt to help."
She walks off.
"Hey! Shouldn't we, I don't know, make sure they're not dead or something?"
She doesn't stop walking. "They're not dead. Brain damage, possibly, but they weren't making good use of their brains anyway."
I stand there for a moment. No way am I chasing after a switchblade-wielding criminal, even if he's got my cash and credit card and phone. But I can't just let the woman leave.
I hurry after her. "Where are you going?"
"The same place I was headed before."
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
"That's your right."
"Do you have a phone?"
"No."
"Your arm is cut pretty bad."
She stops walking. A trickle of blood has run all the way down her arm. She lets out a sigh of frustration.
"You should go to the hospital," I say.
"I don't go to hospitals."
"Okay, but you should get somebody to patch it up. You might need stitches."
"I'll do it myself."
"Seriously?"
"Why would I joke about stitching up my own arm? Who would that amuse?" She resumes walking.
"Look, you should really let me drive you to an emergency room."
"I assure you, I'm not going to let myself bleed out. Since we've already established that the attackers are not dead, I'd like to put some distance between us before they recover."
"Maybe we should go back and get the one guy's gun."
"You're welcome to do that."
We continue walking.
"I'm not trying to be a pain," I say. "I just...I can't let you walk away from this. We have to give a statement to the cops."
"Why?"
/> "Because they tried to mug us! I mean, they tried to mug you, and succeeded in mugging me."
"So you want them to be jailed?"
"Well, yeah, and to get my stuff back."
"I feel that the pain they've endured is sufficient punishment for their crime. If you seek further retribution, I completely understand and I wish you the best. I also understand your desire to get your items back. Take whatever measures you deem necessary. That said, though I'll admit I don't have a strong base of knowledge about how law enforcement works, I'm relatively certain that your stolen property is gone forever."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Harriett. Who are you?"
"I'm Evan."
"Pleasure to meet you, Evan."
"Harriett, that's a really nasty cut, and I'm not going to let you leave without making sure your arm is okay."
"Fine. We'll walk a bit further, and then you can watch me sew up my wound. Is that sufficient?"
"I guess."
"Good."
We continue walking. I can't remember ever having been so baffled by a female.
"Are you hitchhiking?" I ask.
"No. I don't use mechanical transportation."
"You don't look Amish."
"I don't know what that means."
"Amish. They don't use modern technology. You know, they're in that movie Witness with Harrison Ford."
"I don't watch movies."
"Really?"
"Why do you keep assuming that I'm lying to you? Are you a pathological liar yourself?"
"No, no, it's just that not watching movies is kind of unusual, don't you think? Do you own a television set?"
"Everything I own is in my pack."
"How far are you traveling? Sorry about all the questions, but you have to understand, you were being threatened by guys with guns and knives and you took them out with a stick. I don't see that very often. It made me curious."
"That's reasonable. I'm going to Arizona."
"Arizona?"
"You've not heard of it?"
"You're walking to Arizona?"
"Yes."
"That's..." If I had my phone, I could look up the distance. "That's a few states away."
"I know."
"Maybe two thousand miles."
"I didn't say I'd be there by morning."
"I don't think there's even a route that lets you walk the whole way."
"Do you hear me criticizing your plans?"
"I'm just saying, I don't think it can be done."
"Sir, if you'd rescued me from the assailants, I suppose that I'd be in your debt and I'd gratefully listen to you telling me that I don't know what I'm doing. Since that's not how the encounter worked out, I'd rather not hear it."
"All right," I say. "That's fair."
We walk in silence for a few minutes. As we go around the bend, I see the convenience store where I stopped before walking to the park.
"I'll get you some stuff to patch up your arm," I tell her.
"I have medical supplies."
"Okay."
She hesitates. "I wasn't expecting to have to use them so soon. I guess it won't hurt to let you purchase a bandage for this particular wound."
"Cool. Oh, no, wait...my wallet's gone. I don't have any money." I dig into my pockets and find thirty-seven cents.
"I'll use my own supplies."
"Sorry. I wasn't thinking."
"They won't come after us here," she says, as we walk into the well-lit area in front of the store. She removes her backpack, sits down, and leans against the building.
"I have to call the police and then cancel my credit card," I tell her. "Don't go anywhere."
"Will the authorities delay me?"
"They'll probably want a statement."
"Then do you really have to call them?"
"Yeah, because if the guy has used the card already, I'll need to have an official record that I reported it to the police. Otherwise I could get stuck with eight thousand dollars' worth of charges or something."
She nods and unzips her backpack.
I walk into the convenience store. The clerk is kind enough to let me borrow his phone. The time I spend talking to the police is time that the criminal could be on a fun-filled shopping spree, so I decide to cancel the card first.
Apparently Tuesday evening is a good time to be mugged, because I'm not on hold for very long and the process is only slightly nightmarish. I'm also going to have to get a new driver's license, new insurance cards, and I've lost the eight stamps I'd accumulated toward a free submarine sandwich. Could be worse. I could be an unemployed widower. Oh, wait...
The good news is that he didn't use my card. And, at the most, I had forty dollars in my wallet. Since I must reluctantly agree with the assessment that no way in hell am I getting my stuff back, I decide to go with Harriett's wishes and not involve the authorities.
I kind of expect her to be gone when I step back outside, but she's still there. She's cleaned her arm with some antiseptic wipes, which are discarded on the cement next to her, and she's holding a threaded needle up to the cut.
I sit down beside her. "Are you really going to do that yourself?"
"Yes."
"Without something to numb the pain?"
"I took three aspirin."
"Okay."
"Do you need anesthesia before you watch me?"
"You don't have to be sarcastic. I just think it's—Jesus Christ!"
I can't believe she is stitching up her own cut. It's not as if I haven't seen a lot of unpleasant medical procedures over the past few months, but not somebody doing it to herself.
Harriett pulls the thread tight, and loops the needle around for a second stitch.
"Anyway," I say, "I decided not to—" I suck in a deep breath through my teeth as she sticks the needle in again. I can tell from her face that it really hurts, but she doesn't make a sound or shed a tear. "—call the police—gaah, how the hell do you do that?"
She finishes the third stitch, then starts to tie it off. It's in an awkward spot for her to do it herself, but she seems to be managing all right.
Harriett inspects her work and then, satisfied, puts the needle and thread back into a small first aid kit.
"So, pain isn't really a big deal for you, huh?" I ask.
"I don't see any reason to dwell on it." She puts the kit into her backpack, zips it up, and stands. "Do I need to wait for questioning?"
"Nah, we're fine. I didn't call the police."
"Thank you. I've already been delayed long enough."
"Could you do me a huge favor before you go?" I ask. "I have to know why you're walking to Arizona. I'm an obsessively curious guy. Not knowing will keep me up all night. Please."
"You won't believe me."
"That doesn't matter. I just need to know."
"No. You'll tell everyone about the mentally disturbed woman you met, and I'm not interested in being the target of your ridicule."
"I won't make fun of you. I promise."
She glances at my left hand. "Does your wife approve of you talking to strange women after dark?"
"Becky died. It hasn't even been two weeks."
Harriett puts her hand over her mouth. "Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be disrespectful."
"It's fine. I mean, it's not fine, but what you said was fine."
She looks deep into my eyes, as if trying to discern whether or not I am a lying sack of shit.
"All right," she says. She takes a deep breath. "I am on my way to slay a Cyclops."
CHAPTER THREE
I want to say, "Okay, well, thank you for your time," and let her resume her journey. But she looks so sincere that I feel like I should play along for, I don't know, fifteen seconds or so before we go our separate ways.
"A Cyclops, huh?"
"Yes."
I'm suddenly out of questions. She was intriguing when she beat the crap out of some muggers and stitched up her own arm, but as desperately
as I need some distractions in my life right now, I don't have time for a crazy lady.
Harriett looks into my eyes again. "You don't believe me."
"I can't really commit either way right now."
"Live well, Evan."
"Thanks. You too."
She walks away.
* * *
Fortunately, my hours of walking were not in a single direction, so it only takes me about thirty minutes to get back to my car, although it seems much longer without music. Credit where it's due: the nutty Cyclops-slaying lady did take my mind off my real problems for a while.
If only my encounter with Dirk had been like the encounter with the muggers. "I quit, Dirk!" Whack! Wooden pole to the forehead! Whack! Whack! Whack! Not hard enough to actually expose any part of his brain, but definitely hard enough to leave permanent evidence of his punishment for being a prick. (Obviously, in this fantasy I'm the one wielding the weapon, rather than Harriett. I don't need her to beat up my ex-boss for me.)
I wonder if she was just messing with me? Or maybe "Slay a Cyclops" is a slang term for something. Hey, after work do you wanna see a movie, get a couple of drinks, maybe slay a Cyclops?
I drive home and go inside. The house still feels weird without Becky. She traveled a lot for work so I spent plenty of nights here alone, but everything seems off somehow. The hallways are too long. The ceiling is too low. The air conditioner is too loud.
It doesn't matter. I won't be here much longer. I can move anywhere I want now. Well, anyplace that's affordable. Maybe I'll go someplace where the cost of living is really cheap, like Arkansas. Or Mexico. Despite evidence on my high school report card to the contrary, I could learn Spanish.
I definitely need a shower, but Becky's sister Marjorie has been calling me from Seattle every night to check how I'm doing, so I should call her to let her know that I don't have my cell phone anymore. Hopefully they can transfer my number to a new one.
I pick up the handset of my phone and the beeps tell me I've got voicemail. The first call is from Human Resources, explaining that there is some paperwork to be filled out, and I should come in at my earliest convenience. The second is from Patty at work, whose cubicle was next to mine, saying that she boxed up my things and I can come up and get them, or if I call her she'll be more than happy to bring the box down to the lobby, or even the parking lot, whatever is easiest for me, and she's sorry again about Becky, and everybody is worried about me, and that Chet is finally pressure washing their driveway after literally six weeks of her telling him it needed it, and she's trying a different recipe for these oatmeal raisin cookies that she's baking but she's having second thoughts about veering away from what has worked in the past, and that she's not sure how much recording time there is in a voicemail, it's not like the olden days where you'd run out of tape, and—