(These are a follow-up to a
previous post, “My First Date.” They are
part of my life story, reposted from https://sweetlybrokengirl.blogspot.com.)
Jason and I were getting married in a few months. And as a last hurrah, my mom offered to take
me, Gina (my maid-of-honor), and Gina’s mom, Donna, on a cruise. We would get to spend some time in Ft.
Lauderdale and then board a ship for a one-day trip to the Bahamas. I had never been to the Bahamas before or on
a cruise. What a wonderful treat and a
great way to finish out my single years!
But it’s amazing how things don’t always go the way you plan!
The day before our trip, I was busy packing in the
apartment that I shared with three other girls: Laura, Gina and Sarah. For four girls sharing a small two-bedroom
apartment, we got along amazingly well.
We had been dorm-mates in college.
And after I graduated, we lived together for a year. I had always wanted to share an apartment
with other girls for a while, experience the whole apartment-roommate
thing.
And I have so many fond memories from that year. We set off the fire alarm once when we set
our stove on fire (accidentally), we put up our first real Christmas tree
together (have you ever seen four college girls try to put up a tree by
themselves?), and we scared the wits out of Sarah when I hid in the closet and
Gina and Laura told her to go in there and get some paper towels. (Boy, she was so mad she couldn’t even
talk! She just went right to doing
dishes, I’m sticking with my story: Gina
and Laura made me do it.) It was a
wonderful year.
Well, it was just Laura and me at home the day before the
trip. Jason was visiting since I would
be leaving the next morning for a week.
I hadn’t found my birth certificate yet (which I needed for the cruise) or
finished packing my things. And we would
be leaving bright and early the next morning, around 4 a.m. or so, to catch our
plane. It was crunch time. I only had a few hours left to get everything
together.
I needed to find something in our “storage unit” in the
basement. These were basically just
chicken-wire cages all lined up along one wall of the basement. They each had their own door, and there was a
door to the basement room that they were in.
On the other side of the basement, there was a makeshift room where our
neighbor, Jim, lived. (I don’t think it
was a “legal” housing situation.) Jim
was a fellow that generally kept to himself.
He said “Hi” every now and then, but lived like a hermit.
I was in one of the chicken-wire rooms looking for
something I needed for the trip when I heard Jim yelling upstairs, on our
apartment level. He was banging on the
door of the apartment that was directly across the hall from ours, cursing and
yelling, “OPEN THE DOOR . . . TURN THE !@#$% HEAT ON!” over and over.
Apparently, no one came to the door, and so he gave up
and came downstairs to the room where I was.
When he walked into the room, he shut the door behind himself. My nerves tingled and suddenly I was on high
alert. He was acting a little . . . well
. . . odd! It was just him and me now,
shut in the basement together. And he
stood right outside the door of our chicken-wire unit, between me and the
basement door. I was trapped and I began
to get very nervous.
“Hi, I’m Jim,” he said.
He began to babble about how the guy upstairs wouldn’t turn the heat on
and how his heat wouldn’t go up if the guy upstairs didn’t turn his on. And then he proceeded to introduce himself to
me several more times. He reeked of
alcohol.
“Yes, Jim, I know you.
We’ve met before.” I tried to act
nice and calm, hoping maybe some recognition on his part would melt the steely
look in his eyes. What should I do
now? Do I walk boldly and calmly right
past him while he was talking and hope he lets me by? What if he tried to block me or grab me? I would literally have to brush against him
to get past. Should I look for things to
throw or put up a barrier between us with boxes? What would he do if he sensed that I was
panicking?
I didn’t know the best thing to do, and I feared letting
him know that I was afraid of him. So I
thought I’d wait him out. Maybe he would
just leave. I made it look like I was
reorganizing our boxes as I began stacking them into a blockade between him and
me. I knew that I was trapping myself
further because it blocked my exit to the door, but it also blocked his
entrance to our storage unit. Plus, it
was my hope that if he did try to enter, he would stumble over the boxes, while
I would be ready to fight and climb over him if I had to. I never felt so trapped in my life! I was, literally, a caged animal!
He was still talking about how mad he was at the guy
upstairs, while I calculated how fast I could get out of there. Jason (it figures!) had run out to the store
just minutes before I went downstairs.
So the only person in our apartment was Laura. She had apparently watched Jim through the
peep hole on our door while he was banging on the door across the hall. And now she knew that I was downstairs and
that Jim was with me . . . and that he had a gun. And so she came to check on me.
The second she swung the basement door open, Jim whipped
out the gun from his back pocket (I had no idea that he had one!), wheeled
around and aimed it right at her with both hands. Time seemed to slow down. My mind tried to register what was happening
as I leaned over from my cage and mouthed the words “Help me!” (As if she couldn’t tell that I needed help! There was a gun aimed at her head!) Laura was amazingly calm.
“Jim, you know me,” she said with a friendly smile.
“Oh! Sorry!” he
said, as he lowered the gun. “I thought
you were the guy upstairs. He won’t turn
the heat on.” (Thank God that she wasn’t the guy upstairs! What would he
have done if she was? I’m glad I never
found out!)
“No, I’m a girl. I
just have short hair,” she said. And
then she looked at me, “Heather, have you found my soccer bag yet?” Hint, hint!
Wink, wink! She was a quick
thinker.
“No, I still don’t see it!” I said, as I pretended to look around one
last time. “I’ll come upstairs and help
you find it.” I locked the cage door and
left with her to go to our apartment. As
soon as we shut our door, we stood there . . . stunned.
“That was a gun, right?
He just pulled a gun out, didn’t he?”
She told me that she had seen him waving the gun around through the
peep-hole, so she knew that I could be in trouble downstairs. (Brave, selfless Laura! My hero!
She knew he had a gun and she still came down to check on
me.) We were unsure of what to do, and I
was still in a state of shock. So I did
the first thing that came to mind. I
called the landlord.
“Uh, you may want to kick Jim out because . . . he just
pulled a gun on Laura.” I told him, very
matter-of-factly.
“Okaaaay?” he said.
“Hang up the phone and dial 9-1-1.”
Oh right! 9-1-1! Never dawned on me. I hung up, called 9-1-1 and reported what had
happened. And then we waited until the
police got there. And what do you do
after you call 9-1-1 and are waiting for the cops to show up, while the guy who
pulled a gun on you is still down in the basement, probably beginning to
realize what he had done and wondering what you would do?
“Well, I’m going to brush my teeth,” Laura said.
“Okay, I’m going to clean my room,” I said. Because, you know, it was such a disaster
since I was trying to pack for a trip.
Soon, there was a knock on the door. And when I looked out of the peep-hole, there
was Jim with a plate of shrimp and a jar of half-used shrimp sauce in his
hands. No joke! And what did I do when the guy who just
pulled a gun on my roommate knocked on my door with a plate of shrimp and some
shrimp sauce? That’s right! I opened the door. I think I was afraid that if I didn’t act
normal and open the door then he would suspect that we called the cops, and he
would get angry and break the door down or shoot through it or something. (So, of course, it was so much better to spare him the large barrier and just open it up
for him!)
“Hi,” I said. And
I smiled my best I-didn’t-just-call-the-cops-on-you smile. (And, yes, the cop did scold me for opening
the door.)
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said. Then he held up the shrimp and the
half-bottle of shrimp sauce. “Would you
like this?” A peace-offering! “It’s all I have.” (Oh, yeah!
Like I’m gonna eat that!)
“No, thanks. We
don’t eat shrimp,” I said, politely declining.
And I closed the door, wondering if it was thick enough to stop a
bullet. I backed away from it, just in
case.
A few minutes later, the cops showed up and escorted us
to the next building. And then they
tried to coax Jim out. And they
tried. And they tried. And they tried! Apparently, this was just the beginning of a
long, long night. (And all the packing I
still had to do. And the birth
certificate? I couldn’t leave without
it. They wouldn’t let me on the
ship. But they also wouldn’t let us back
in the apartment.)
Jim, as we later learned, had a cache of weapons in his
room. (This explains who took my chef’s
knife from my wok set that was left out in the basement.) And he was not going to give up easily. From our view in the neighboring building, we
watched as the SWAT team surrounded our building, hiding behind trees with guns
drawn. (Or maybe it was some other
acronym standing for the law enforcement group that comes out with all the big
weapons? I can’t remember what their
shirts said.)
The craziest part was that Jason had been at our place
all afternoon. And he had left just
minutes before this all happened. When
he had left, all was normal. But by the
time he came back, the apartment was surrounded by SWAT members, and they
wouldn’t let anyone through. So when he
tried to get into our parking lot, the cops stopped him.
“I just need to get right over there to that apartment,”
he said, pointing to our building.
“That’s the one we can’t let anyone in,” the cop
said. So he backed out and drove to a
nearby parking lot. He didn’t know what
was going on or where I was. But I
watched him from the window. I watched
as he pulled into one parking lot, turned around and drove across the street to
another parking lot, and then turned around and went back to the first parking
lot. He obviously didn’t know what to
do.
I flagged down one of the cops and pointed out his
car. (Well, my car, actually. That little, white VW Golf.) I told him, “That is my fiancé. Can you get him and tell him where we are?”
The officer got to the car and asked him a question that
anyone would love to hear. “Are you the
boyfriend of the girl that was assaulted?”
(What? Like that wouldn’t
scare him or anything!) Anyway, they got
him over to us, and we all went to the officer’s makeshift headquarters where
we sat for hours. Jim would not give
up. It was getting dark and we were hungry
and I still hadn’t packed. If we didn’t
get back in soon, I would be leaving for Florida with just the clothes on my
back and no identification.
As the night dragged on, we were asked to go to the
police station so that the officers could sleep in shifts at the
“headquarters.” We decided, instead, to
kill some time at a restaurant. So Gina,
Laura, Laura’s then-boyfriend (who, incidentally, is the lead singer of
Chevelle. Shameless name-dropping! Hi, Pete!
You never did take Gina and me up on our offer to be your back-up
singers. Too bad for you! Just kidding!), Jason and I sat in a booth at
Denny’s, bleary-eyed and a little tipsy from all the excitement. We tried to eat a little. Nobody ate much. We just sat and talked and tried to keep our
eyes open.
After we exhausted our welcome there and still couldn’t
get back in our apartment, Gina, Jason, and I went to the police station about
midnight or 1 a.m. We were told to go
there by the SWAT team, so I thought maybe they’d have a cot or something for
us to sleep on. But they didn’t. Nope!
It was the cold, hard floor for us - no bedding or pillows. I think even a jail cell would have been more
comfortable. But they never
offered.
Time was running out!
But thankfully, at 3 a.m., we got word that we could go back to the
apartment. It was finally over! And it couldn’t have been better timing. I had one hour to get everything
together. When we got back, we realized
that they must have used our apartment as a sort-of base or something because
it was in complete disarray. (Oh,
yeah! I’m so glad that I never had time
to pick up all my dirty clothes before the police spent the night in my room! How embarrassing!) There were cushions overturned, footprints
all over, and the whole placed reeked of pepper spray or something. It was how they finally got Jim out of the
basement. It was very hard to breathe
without coughing and feeling your throat tighten up.
I quickly put a few things together and said good-bye to
Jason. And Gina and I left for the
plane. I was exhausted and tried to
catch a little shut-eye on the plane.
But every time I closed my eyes, I would jump and awaken with a start. I kept seeing guns in my dream. Big surprise, huh? (Later, at court for this incident, we found
out that he did have a gun like the one we described and that, when they found
it, it was loaded and the safety was off.
Great combo: drunk guy with a loaded gun! Thank God that he didn’t have a jittery
trigger-finger.)
(Things like this just kinda seem to happen in my
family. My brother, Bobby, was robbed at
knife-point not too long after this. He
was working behind the counter at his job when a guy came in, pulled a knife,
told him to lay on the floor, and robbed the place. He’s okay, though. And apparently, it was a staged robbery; the
knife-man was in cahoots with the guy working next to my brother. Bizarre stuff!)
It was the most bizarre night of my life! And what a way to start the vacation that was
to celebrate my upcoming marriage. But
it ended up being a wonderful trip, though . . . except for the motion
sickness. I should have seen that
coming. It happens on planes and in cars. But did that stop me from getting onto a
cruise ship: a giant, floating, rocking prison with no way to escape? No! I
was doing fine until I had a few little sips of champagne at dinner, and then
(Ugh!) I couldn’t handle the constant rocking of the ship. And the rocking and the rocking. Back and forth, head-spinning rocking. So I spent the rest of the night in bed and
missed out on a wonderful dinner.
But I did get to have my first, and only, facial and
massage on that cruise. So that was nice. Actually, who am I kidding? The massage was . . . awful! Incredibly painful! I was laying there all ready for a nice,
gentle, soothing touch to work out all the stress and kinks in my back, when
they sent in Attila the Hun to pound my muscles into pulp. How anyone does that regularly for relaxation
is beyond me! I grimaced the whole time,
praying that the pain would end soon. Dear
God, what did I do to deserve this!?!
Arriving in the Bahamas (and finally getting off that
boat) was a welcome treat. I got to do a
little shopping, take a tour on a glass-bottomed boat, and spend some time on
the beach next to the ocean, swinging in a hammock between two palm trees. I could have stayed there all week! Felt like Wewak!
I came home with a little green ring, a rag doll, and a
picture of myself climbing the stairs to get on the cruise ship. I kept telling Gina that she just had
to get a picture of me boarding the ship for my first cruise. It was the only photo I just had to have! And when I got my pictures developed (before
the days of digital), there I was . . . standing near the top of the stairs in
my little blue dress, smiling down at Gina who was taking the picture. And just behind me, right next to my head,
was the half-naked butt of an older woman who was boarding the ship in her
swimsuit. Yeah . . . Figures!
I also came back with a much smaller self-esteem. (Don’t feel bad, though. It could use a little trim now and
then.) Gina and I were shopping in
Florida in the stores by the beach. We
had just walked into one, and the guy working there (with really bloodshot
eyes) looked at Gina and pretty much fell over himself. “Wow, beautiful! Very pretty eyes.” (She is really beautiful!)
And then after swooning some more, he turns to me and
matter-of-factly says, “And you must be . . . the mother?”
I was . . . I was . . . speechless. I was horrified and mortified. And I stood there with a stunned look, my
mouth hanging open and no sound coming out.
(I’m sure that made me look much
better!) And you must be the
mother!?! The MOTHER! I am six months younger than she is!
“No, I’m . . . the . . . friend,” I barely
squeaked. He apologized profusely,
pulled me close, hugged me and kissed me on my forehead, and then began pulling
me to the back of the store. Why? I don’t know. But I wasn’t about to find out, and I began
pulling away with all of my might until he let me go, and I hurried out of
there. (What in the world was
going on this week?)
[Although, he wasn’t the last person to ask if I was
Gina’s mother. It happened once again
when we were out to dinner a few years later.
Gina had been living in another state for a while. And she came back to visit just after I had
my first son. I was looking forward to a
nice dinner out with an old friend.
“So, is it mother-daughter night?” the server asked. I thought about punching him right in his
smiling face.
“No,” I said. “She’s six months older. And that would have really crushed my
self-esteem had I not already had it smashed to pieces by someone else who said
the same thing. So it doesn’t bother me
as much this time. But thanks for
asking!” I replied. That’s it! No tip for you! (Of course, I did tip him! I didn’t want to, but I did!)
And as Gina and I laughed about it, I realized that I
really shouldn’t go out with Gina anymore!
Not in daylight, or moonlight, or artificial light. Alright, that’s it, not at all. (Don’t worry.
I’m really fine about it all now.
Really!) I mean, I could
understand if it happened now, because my hair is prematurely gray . . . I
mean, silver. But back then, I was in my
early twenties with nice, dark hair. I
don’t know how. . . I mean, how could they . . . what were they . . . I’m still
at a loss!]
And those are the fond memories that I have of my last
few weeks as a single woman. It’s a good
thing that I’m not superstitious. Oh,
well! My beautiful wedding day, that I
took a year and a half to plan, was here.
(But
before I go any farther, I need to apologize to you, Gina. I am sorry that I took the church that you
once pointed out as “the prettiest church to get married in.” I didn’t mean to “steal” it because I really
thought that we could both have our weddings there since we would have
different guests. But it never really
dawned on me that it may have bothered you until much later. And so whether or not you were bothered by
it, I’m still sorry. I should have
talked it over with you first. Much to
your credit, you never let on if it did bother you. Thank you!)
