Just Another Rainy Day

A bizarre confrontation with a complete stranger

 JUST ANOTHER RAINY DAY

It must have been about 1979, maybe 1980.

I was only 26, already started on a second career, the first having flamed out spectacularly.  I was working in downtown Seattle, a trainee underwriter in commercial insurance. The pay was miserable.  I survived on the newfound friendships with fellow trainees, liberal amounts of after work drinking, and home cooked dinners frequently consisting of pasta, broccoli and cheddar cheese.  Nights I abided in a dark, chilly abode, a basement apartment in the coastal town of Edmonds, just north of Seattle.  A tiny window over the kitchen sink let in the only natural light.  Besides being cheap, the main attribute of the tiny studio was a large fireplace.  That winter I took frequent after dinner walks to the town library, returned with a new bag of books, built a roaring fire to save both sanity and heating costs, then stretched catlike along my old sofa to lick my day’s wounds and crack open a good novel.

Like most male teen high schoolers of my age, I had bought and modified a series of old Chevies.  Upon leaving college I had purchased a moderately used 1970 Nova, tricked it out with new wheels and paint, kept it purring; I could afford nothing newer.

That winter it grew cranky, ran ever more poorly, and I thought I had traced the problem to a malfunctioning carburetor.  How old may you be, dear reader?  Do you remember those huge, fat yellow phone books left upon doorsteps once a year? I searched a number of pages, I made a number of calls.  I wanted a rebuilt carburetor specific to my Nova.  I had been told it was just as good as buying new.

As luck would have it, the nearest shop indicating it could accommodate my request was located all the way back toward downtown Seattle.  The address was so alien I had to unfold a city map to get my bearings.  I had certainly never been anywhere near that neighborhood.

Of course come Saturday, the city was struck with windy, rain-soaked squalls. Even with the map beside me, carefully folded to display my destination circled in marker, it required exploring in a zigzagging circle to get close to the target address. I found myself in one of those geographic Bermuda triangles common to large urban areas.  It seemed a dirty, dingy mix of streets,a meeting up of three neighborhoods, industrial, retail, and habitational.  Parking, entirely parallel spacing, was tight that day since so many had the day off.  I took the first space I could find.

I reckoned I faced an extremely damp hike of about three blocks each direction.  That proved a darn good guess.  About thirty minutes later I was back at my car, one wet dog of a man.  I slid the cardboard box holding the carburetor onto the back seat, slid myself behind the steering wheel, fired the engine, and while listening to the wheeze of the old carburetor, cranked the defrost to high and found tissue to dry my glasses.

Once the windows cleared, I shifted into reverse and slowly backed, watched in the rear view mirror to gauge my closeness to the car behind me, gaining space to pull from the parking spot.

What the hell?  In the mirror I saw a figure running down the sidewalk in my direction.  I turned my head for a better look. It was an amazing sight.  I saw a man with rain-drenched shoulder length hair, feet and chest bare, wearing only a pair of soaking wet jeans, running as if for his very life.

Once on Capitol Hill I had stepped from a bus directly into the path of two running gay lovers, one who fired a pistol at the other.  This neighborhood I was now in certainly looked like a place drug deals might go awry.  In other words violence immediately crossed my mind and I prepared myself to watch for one or more pursuers when he passed by.

No, no, no, no no…….he didn’t pass by!  He made an almost instantaneous decision to halt, yanked open my unlocked passenger car door, slid his wet butt into the passenger seat, slammed the door closed, and popped down the lock.

Fingering a small medallion hung from his neck, he turned his head toward me, pushed straggling tendrils of hair away from his manic blue eyes, and shouted in my face, For f**k’s sake Mary, get going, there’s no more time!

Oh boy, no more time, didn’t I suddenly know that!

Christ Mary, get going, there’s no time.  F**k it, I’ll drive. 

He pushed at me hard, I yanked the key from the ignition, held it tight in my left fist.  No, No I replied, I’m happy to drive. We just need to let the engine warm up (of course it wasn’t even running).  Tell me where we’re going.

As he continued yelling orders to drive, I watched his dangerous hands, spoke back words I hoped would calm him.  Somehow I became aware his feet and the legs of his blue jeans were spattered and smeared with blood.  I couldn’t tell if all the blood was from running God knows how long in bare feet, or if he had been attacked, or had attacked someone himself.

Suddenly he began weeping uncontrollably.  He choked out words, now calling me Mom.  I swear Mom I didn’t mean for Jimmy to get hurt. God ordered it.

I was really frightened.  We were a long way from any hospitals.   I didn’t think he was a schizophrenic patient on the loose.  I was sure he was dusted.  There was an epidemic of use back then.  Angel Dust.  Who the hell gave it that name.  Devil Dust would have been far closer to the truth.  I had seen films demonstrating the immense strength and complete disregard for pain that is a side effect; I had seen users break their own arms and legs tearing apart police and hospital restraints, seen them lift a person into the air and hurl them against a wall.

I know you didn’t, sweetheart, I know. I tried to soothe him.

Why aren’t we moving? he would suddenly shout again.

For at least twenty minutes he cycled through varying delusions in his head; my name would change, his demands would change.  It felt like improv for my very life.  I just tried not to anger him.  

I watched desperately for any passing police car; tried, without being obvious, to completely take in the details of our surroundings.

I noticed we were parked directly in front of a seedy storefront. It’s been so long I have forgotten exactly what it was.  I think a little insurance agency.  While faking complete attention to my passenger, over and over I looked just past his ears memorizing every detail of that storefront.  

It looked dark.  Being Saturday, I thought it very likely closed. Businesses to either side were clearly closed. 

I knew I could never outrun him.  Even back then, I was fairly handicapped by rheumatoid arthritis.

I waited so long to act I feared he would harm me in frustration.

I tried to shield my left hand with my body as I eased my fingers around the door handle.  I silently asked God for help.  With a quick jerk I pushed open my door, on numb legs tried to quickly scurry past the car’s nose, crossed the sidewalk and slammed my body into the shop’s front door.

It flew inward. I collided with a tall counter.  I looked back out the shop window.  He was still in the car.  He appeared to be speaking.

A very young man and woman stood behind the counter.  I sensed I was interrupting.  They seemed displeased, more interested in one another than in helping a potential customer.

Please I said with urgency.  I need to use your phone.  It’s an emergency.

The male spoke.  Customers are not allowed to use our phones.  Besides, you’re not even a customer.

Are you serious!? Didn’t you hear me say it’s an emergency?

No one may use the phones.

OK, you use the phone.  Dial 911 for me.  It’s urgent!  I need the police.

Why do you need the police? Denial dripped from his tongue, the immature  little prick.

I pointed out the window.  That is my car.  Half an hour ago that man climbed in and won’t get out.  He is almost completely naked, he is delusional, psychotic, most likely very dangerous.

Now the girl spoke.  Oh great, he will probably come in here now. 

I began to tell her, lock the door, call the police, when my passenger did just as she predicted.  He came on in.  Those smug kiddies were probably shocked by his appearance, the long wild, half-dried hair, the bare chest and feet, the blood.

I, on the other hand, now enjoyed some benefit from all the improv we had played in the car.  With the quickest of wit I said to him:

I would like you to meet my two employees, Dumb and Dumber, who are going to pull the Cadillac around, then drive you wherever you need to go. Just give them a couple minutes to gas up, and you will be on your way.

Feeling rather acutely that I too must be on my way, I shot out the door, hopped in my car, and fled.

I drove a mile or two.  Reaching a more familiar neighborhood I pulled to the curb, turned off the ignition.  

I cried, I shook, I laughed.  For quite some time, I cried, I shook, I laughed.

And you know what?  That damn rebuilt carburetor didn’t even work!

Reviews

[Thomas W Case]

Excellent writing. Tremendous flow, and I love the humor.

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thanks Thomas. It’s a completely true story. Something recently made me think of the experience and I thought I should get it down on paper, so to speak, as it is a rather ancient memory.