It
was the cook who saved me, a tiny woman no bigger than a 12 year old,
when I landed gasping at the back door of the 24-hour restaurant at
dusk, the screen propped open by the giant fan to cool the kitchen
during that hot summer in Medford. A young man in a filthy apron
arose from his chair next to a small round bar table, setting his
unfinished cigarette in the ashtray as the cook turned from her
chopping to face me, the knife she held made larger by her small
frame. I stared from her to the busboy and back again, my chest
heaving as I pointed behind me and tried to work words into my ragged
panting.
Some
details are a bit hazy now but I recall they sat me down at their
break table, the cook heading for the back door to avenge me. My eyes
grew wider at that prospect and I indicated by nodding and shaking my
head in response to their questions that the police should be called
instead.
While
I regained my breath and awaited the arrival of the police, I saw
that the 2 chairs against the wall separated by the table which
served as their break area had the cash register in view so they
could keep an eye on things out front as they smoked between orders.
They returned to their work, casting glances my way until the cops
arrived by the front door at the cash register.
The
officer quizzed me about the attack, barely concealed disbelief in
his face as he methodically covered the minimum number of questions
necessary to appear concerned about the incident when a movement
beyond his shoulder at the cash register caught my eye.
And
there he was – the attacker I had fled, walking right into the
restaurant and seating himself at the counter. I began
hyperventilating, eyes saucers, as the officer turned to find the
object of my hysteria.
I
insisted the cops turn his backpack upside down to search for the
weapon, though none was found. And when they told me no charges would
be filed because his version proclaimed his innocence, I erupted in
caustic threats and derogatory innuendos. Whereupon they offered to
jail me instead.
My
witness was a night worker at the McDonald's, a janitor doing the
floors in the dining area in clear view of my windshield, my
clipboard resting on the steering wheel as a desk for catching up my
logbook. With the interior light above my left ear as my lamp, the
gathering darkness outside hid the approach of the ragged transient
who startled me by opening the passenger door and climbing right in,
asking me if I was headed South or some such thing. I responded with
an astonished “What are you doing in my truck?” He lunged across
the cab, grabbed a handful of hair and began banging my head against
the steering wheel.
Recounting
the tale later, I was met with all manner of advice on the measures I
“shoulda” taken. At such close quarters, most of those
suggestions wouldn't work anyway but most people were re-creating the
story in their own minds to resemble a Clint Eastwood movie or Chuck
Norris maybe.
My
left leg was wedged between the door and the seat, one of my more
creative fidgets, preventing me from being pulled across the doghouse
or into the bunk. I got my left hand tangled up in the airhorn pull,
a convenient handhold that alerted the janitor at McDonald's who
watched the incident unfold. Where was my right hand?
I
have come to recognize several instances in my life where God has
spoken to me. Like Charleton Heston. I heard it plainly. Now, I
didn't actually believe in God at that time, or in anything outside
of my five senses for longer than anyone should admit. Over time, I
identified 3 distinct experiences of this Voice, all benevolent,
simple statements of truth. I didn't recall for many years that I
heard that Voice earlier, before I developed an awareness of a Great
Spirit, by whatever name you use. It happened in that truck.
Because
a cabover Kenworth floor reaches somewhere above eye level for me,
anything I want to reach inside is wedged between the door and the
left-side base of the airride seat. Further in, and I can't reach it
from the ground. This is where the cab jack handle resides, a 24”
hunk of iron pipe with a bicycle handgrip on it.
Except
that just now, for reasons I cannot recall, it was resting upright
against the bunk frame and the doghouse, within easy reach of my
right hand.
Although
I didn't attribute it at the time, I recall the deliberate grasp as I
wrapped my hand tightly around the comforting rubber grip, the tiny
voice of Reason saying “You can't hit him over the head with a lead
pipe! That's only in movies!” And the deep Voice filled my head,
said simply, “Him or me!”
It
amazes me how one can weigh options, calculate and judge, theorize
almost calmly while Time seems to race or drag, only later marveling
at the process. My grip firm on the cab jack, I raised it knowing I
would have only one chance. I swung. He grabbed. I released the
fading airhorn pull with my left hand and dropped it to the door
handle, the flat spring-loaded pull-out style, my left leg popped the
door open.
I
bailed out, the cab jack and a handful of my hair his only trophy,
made a perfect paratrooper landing, arose from my crouch and headed
for The Light, the sanctuary of the diner kitchen.
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