Don’t Look Away
Monday, January 1st, 2007
“Hero” is such a strong word to me, a title I wouldn’t give myself and would be reluctant to receive from anyone else, no matter what I did.It is strange though that this is brought up now. When I read the topic title I immediately thought of what happened Christmas Eve out in Brunswick:
It was quite late, a little after 1 AM,so technically it was Christmas. I was in Brunswick dropping off a heavily-loaded Christmas stocking for a friend of mine so when she went to get her morning paper she’d find it hanging from her doorknob. Christmastime is as good a time as any for surprises, and I was feeling at the time I was channeling Santa Claus.
Having done the deed with some bright green ribbon, I was slowly driving out of the subdivision I was in, past a row of apartments, when a woman runs up to my car. I stop and roll the window down. She asks me if I have a cell phone. I don’t I tell her, seeing that she doesn’t have a coat on, but I can take you to a phone. She gets in and we drive to the nearest gas station, a Marathon that I had seen was still open. She has no shoes, her shirt is torn and she’s shaking like a leaf. Her boyfriend beat her up, she tells me, and right now she’s doesn’t really have more of a plan than to get away from him. “We’ll go to the gas station, and you can call the police,” I say.
We get to the Marathon, still open, thankfully, and she runs inside. I park the car and follow her in, just to keep an eye on her. At least she has some money on her, and buys a pack of Pall Malls, but she turns down the clerk’s offer of calling the police for her. He and I do the eye contact thing so he knows I’m the Good Samaritan in this, and I ask him where the payphone is. He points it out to me, right out front, under the sign. She and I walk back to my car. I crank up the heat because now she is just starting to shiver from the cold.
I light her cig, and we talk a little in the disjointed way two complete strangers converse when something bad has happened. She isn’t sure she wants to call the cops. I tell her she has to, if he hit her. “I don’t want to get you involved,” she said, “the Brunswick cops are assholes. They’ll jack you up on something.” [I suppose a lone guy in a crappy old car driving around Brunswick at one in the morning on Christmas would seem a little sketchy to some people.] “Don’t worry about that,” I say, trying to sound reassuring and empathetic at the same time, “I can take care of myself, but you need their help.”
Since we’re in the far corner of the parking lot, so I drive over to the phone, where she smokes another one before picking up the phone. Being hurt by the one you love is the most mixed up feeling in the world, and your anger gets displaced, she took hers out on the 911 operator, but she called, and I drove her back to her apartment building.
We waited in the back parking lot for the cops to arrive. It only took a couple of minutes, two cruisers came in with parking lights only, and blocked off the drive completely. She looked at me and thanked me. “I don’t even know your name,” she said. “P-Paul,” I stumbled out, briefly squeezing her hand, knowing that I’ll probably never see her again and all of that other silly movie drivel that goes through your head in situations like this. She got out to talk to them, and I shut off the car and opened my door, to wait for them to ask me my side of what was going on. They put her in the back of one of the cars, mostly to keep warm.
I’m pretty sure they ran my plate, but the cop was friendly enough when he asked me who I was. I described what happened, and he said “OK, fine, we’ll make room and you get out of here.” As I drove away I saw three other cop cars parked in front of the apartment.
I think her name was Susan. I don’t remember names well at the best of times. I couldn’t say “Sorry, not my problem,” since I would want help from strangers were I in such a situation.
_________________
“Hero” is such a strong word to me, a title I wouldn’t give myself and would be reluctant to receive from anyone else, no matter what I did.It is strange though that this is brought up now. When I read the topic title I immediately thought of what happened Christmas Eve out in Brunswick:
It was quite late, a little after 1 AM,so technically it was Christmas. I was in Brunswick dropping off a heavily-loaded Christmas stocking for a friend of mine so when she went to get her morning paper she’d find it hanging from her doorknob. Christmastime is as good a time as any for surprises, and I was feeling at the time I was channeling Santa Claus.
Having done the deed with some bright green ribbon, I was slowly driving out of the subdivision I was in, past a row of apartments, when a woman runs up to my car. I stop and roll the window down. She asks me if I have a cell phone. I don’t I tell her, seeing that she doesn’t have a coat on, but I can take you to a phone. She gets in and we drive to the nearest gas station, a Marathon that I had seen was still open. She has no shoes, her shirt is torn and she’s shaking like a leaf. Her boyfriend beat her up, she tells me, and right now she’s doesn’t really have more of a plan than to get away from him. “We’ll go to the gas station, and you can call the police,” I say.
We get to the Marathon, still open, thankfully, and she runs inside. I park the car and follow her in, just to keep an eye on her. At least she has some money on her, and buys a pack of Pall Malls, but she turns down the clerk’s offer of calling the police for her. He and I do the eye contact thing so he knows I’m the Good Samaritan in this, and I ask him where the payphone is. He points it out to me, right out front, under the sign. She and I walk back to my car. I crank up the heat because now she is just starting to shiver from the cold.
I light her cig, and we talk a little in the disjointed way two complete strangers converse when something bad has happened. She isn’t sure she wants to call the cops. I tell her she has to, if he hit her. “I don’t want to get you involved,” she said, “the Brunswick cops are assholes. They’ll jack you up on something.” [I suppose a lone guy in a crappy old car driving around Brunswick at one in the morning on Christmas would seem a little sketchy to some people.] “Don’t worry about that,” I say, trying to sound reassuring and empathetic at the same time, “I can take care of myself, but you need their help.”
Since we’re in the far corner of the parking lot, so I drive over to the phone, where she smokes another one before picking up the phone. Being hurt by the one you love is the most mixed up feeling in the world, and your anger gets displaced, she took hers out on the 911 operator, but she called, and I drove her back to her apartment building.
We waited in the back parking lot for the cops to arrive. It only took a couple of minutes, two cruisers came in with parking lights only, and blocked off the drive completely. She looked at me and thanked me. “I don’t even know your name,” she said. “P-Paul,” I stumbled out, briefly squeezing her hand, knowing that I’ll probably never see her again and all of that other silly movie drivel that goes through your head in situations like this. She got out to talk to them, and I shut off the car and opened my door, to wait for them to ask me my side of what was going on. They put her in the back of one of the cars, mostly to keep warm.
I’m pretty sure they ran my plate, but the cop was friendly enough when he asked me who I was. I described what happened, and he said “OK, fine, we’ll make room and you get out of here.” As I drove away I saw three other cop cars parked in front of the apartment.
I think her name was Susan. I don’t remember names well at the best of times. I couldn’t say “Sorry, not my problem,” since I would want help from strangers were I in such a situation.
_________________
