The Safe Way

The rain beat upon the windshield, and I could barely see through. Eliza sat beside me, leaning further up to the glass, trying to be a visual navigator for me. She kept an eye out for things in the road, read street names out to me, and warned me about the quick-brakers ahead. As we pull up towards a stoplight, I spot a homeless man, trying desperately to stay dry with his piece of cardboard held tightly against the top of his head. Nobody else even looked twice at him, and I knew I had to at least help him get somewhere dry. I mean, it's the least could I do. And it’s not like he was trying to hitchhike; this was just me doing something out of kindness. I always held the notion in my head that the dangerous hitchhikers are the ones asking for rides, not the ones trying to walk somewhere in the rain.

I roll down my window and motion for him to get in the backseat. His eyes held the most grateful look, accompanied by that hurt, scarred look most typically seen in the eyes of an abused puppy, scared to make any move that could even be considered even slightly damaging. I think, however, that in this situation, his need to stay dry and warm allowed him to overcome the fear of hurt. I asked him where I could take him, and his low, shy, crackly voice spoke a quiet answer, referring me to the grocery store around the corner. His voice had that quality of gruffness, not from his personality, but from a lack of use. It sounded similar to an old trumpet pulled out of a garage sale, having it's first push of air in years forced through the piping. I turn my blinker on, and we drive silently towards the grocery store. I leave Eliza in the car, and walk in with him, deciding to buy him a bottle for water, and an umbrella. As he wanders through the aisles, pretending to have a legitimate reason for being there, I pick out an umbrella and a reusable water bottle, and bring it to the register. I tell the cashier that I will be paying for my items, and then leave them up front for the man that I brought along. “You remember seeing him, right? He’s pretty ragged, and his hair needs a trim, but I’m sure you’ll know who I mean when you see him”. I walk out of the store, and get back in the car with Eliza. She must have been able to read the worry on my face, because she told me we could stop back later and be sure everything turned out alright. Something about this man gave me more concern for him than just any stranger I ran into. Perhaps I knew the feeling that I could read in his eyes, that ever-grateful emotion overflowing, but his battered, shamed body could only manage to express it through his eyes.

We continue on our way, but I couldn’t stop ruminating about that man. About another silent half-an-hour into our trip, I turn to Eliza, and I tell her simply that I need to turn around and make sure that he's doing alright. I pull into a parking lot connected to a gas station, and turn the car back towards the way we came. I pick up my speed slightly, and try not to let these emotions take over. Something about that man made him more than a homeless stranger to me. Something made me worry about him as a person, as if he were a close friend. I felt an oddly strong connection to a stranger that sat in my car for no more than five minutes. As we begin to get closer to the Safeway at which we dropped him off, my foot pushes more heavily upon the gas pedal. I feel an oddly intense emotion, as if I had forgotten my dementia-ridden father at some cheap diner in the city, and had to rush over there before he wandered into the streets and got lost. I can’t seem to recognize what flicked my emotional switch towards this man, but I know that it won’t be going away.

As I see the red lights reading “S FEWAY” come into view, I turn my wheels to roll in between the white lines dividing the parking lot into parking spots. I move my gear shift up to the “P”, and tug my keys out of the ignition, probably quicker than I should. I push the door open as my anxiety rises, and Eliza struggles to catch up to me. I enter through the automatic doors, and see a teen-aged employee pick up the umbrella and the water bottle that I had bought, preparing to put them back on the shelf. My mind flutters for a minute, and I think of the different reasons that this boy would return the items to the shelf. A) He didn’t want the items, and returned them for cash, or B) He never picked them up. Either way, I paid for them, and I needed to find out what happened. I approach the boy, and ask him why he’s replacing the items. He tells me that some lady had paid for them and was going to have someone pick them up, but nobody came to get them and he was going to put them back since nobody was coming for them. Right as I hear this, my head gets a bit dizzy, and I rest my hand on a nearby shelf, casually, so as not to draw attention to my sudden illness. I look at the boy again, but he’s turned his back towards me, and is headed to put the items back. I walk through the store, looking for the man, but there’s no sign of him. I couldn’t even find any evidence that he had ever been there, and I know something went wrong. I mean, they wouldn’t just put things back because nobody took them. I paid for those. They knew somehow, that nobody was going to pick them up. They did something to him. The anger begins to rise in my throat, in the form of bile, and I can feel my face blushing with angered heat. Something happened here. I turn to Eliza, but I don’t see her either. I feel the fear join the anger that’s situated itself in my throat, stomach and brain, and turn my head to see the nearest camera. I see two, and I feel their eyes drilling holes through my head, stealing my thought process, and I wonder what they’ve done with my friends, and why they’ve taken them. I tell myself to walk calmly so they don’t suspect my knowledge of their plans, and when the pathway is clear, I’ll run as fast as I can, dodging as many bullets as need be. If they took my friends already, that means I’m next. That’s what it always means. I look at the monitor that shows the camera shots in the store, and pretend to wander around nonchalantly. These thoughts of anger, betrayal and fear control my head, and I know I need to find my friends. The store closes in half an hour. I decide to find something to use as a makeshift weapon, and I'll confront them. As long as they think I know nothing, I won't be able to do anything to save my friends.

I head quickly to the bath and hygiene aisle, grabbing a set of nail clippers and a pack of disposable razors. I hide in the back, taking apart the disposable razors with the nail clippers. I pull the blades out of the razor head, keeping one, and placing the others back in the package carefully, and I prepare myself mentally for what I'm about to do. I head to the line, and grab a random bag of chips, so I'll be able to pretend I have a real reason to be in line. I set the bag at the very end of the grocery belt, watching it slowly work it's way towards the cashier, and walk confidently towards the cashier. “Where are my friends?” I ask demandingly. The boy pretends to know nothing about what I'm asking, and I repeat myself, this time with a “No bullshit” look on my face. “I asked you a question. Where are my friends?” He looks scared, but still pretends to know nothing. I grab his hand, pulling it towards me, and I press my long, cracking nails against the back of his hand sharply, as a warning. I press just hard enough to make him know I'm serious, as I repeat the question for the third time. “Look, I'm not going to ask again. Where are my fucking friends?” He takes advantage of the momentary emotional lapse in my response, and pulls his hand away, telling me he'll bring the manager up to talk with me. He lifts the phone, touches a few numbers, and I hear the loudspeaker request a manager to checkout line three. I know that I can't let them over-power me, and I arm my other hand with the blade. The manager walks up, and asks how he can help.

“You know what you need to do. I need my friends back, before this gets ugly.” “Excuse me?”
“Do I really need to repeat myself a million times for you, too?”
“Well, who are these friends that you're referring to?”
“They walked in with me, you fucking idiot. You captured them, and I'm not going to be next.”
“Ma'am, you walked in alone. I can show you the video footage.”
“Please do.”

They take me to the back office, and I be sure to watch his fingers on the punch-pad, so I can get out if I need to escape quickly. 2-0-1-7. They try to make you think the keypads are to keep people out, but it goes both ways -- keeping people out and keeping people in. I look at the different rooms back here, trying to guess where they would keep Eliza and the homeless man. Each door looks the same though, and I decide to just count how many there are instead, making sure to note any numbers on the doors. My count hits six, and I follow him into the room.

The room is equipped with a television screen, and the manager pulls a chair up for me. I pretend to be civil, and sit, politely. He rewinds the footage for me, going back to the time at which I first came in, and shows me on the video, walking in alone, picking out an umbrella and water bottle, paying, and leaving them at the counter.

“You obviously have had time to edit this footage. You made your first mistake when you knew exactly what time to rewind the video to.”
“Actually, ma'am-”
“Stop calling me ma'am. Stop pretending to be polite and demure. You aren't fooling anyone.”
“Alright, then, lady, we knew where to rewind to because we thought it odd that you left your items at the counter, and we had kept your receipt. We looked at the time on your receipt.”
“Well that doesn't mean you didn't edit the footage. Show me where you're keeping my friends.”
“We don't have anyone being held captive. We don't have any software that we could've used to edit your footage, and we now have every reason to call the cops, seeing as you have threatened us.”
“Please, call the cops. They need to know what's going on. But I'm going to dial the number, and I'm going to be the one doing the talking, because for all I know you have friends in uniform on your side.”
“Please, do.”

As I see the red and blue lights flash into the parking lot, a strange sense of half-relief and half-nausea comes into my stomach, and I prepare what I'm going to say in my head, rehearsing it so it's just right. The uniforms walk in, and I'm surprised to hear the first words come out of their mouth: “Have you been drinking tonight, miss? Have you been diagnosed with any sort of mental illness?”

I thought they would be on my side, and I thought they would be helping me, not trying to incriminate me and accuse me of public drunkenness and insanity. My stomach loses the half-relief and switches over the nausea to full-blown. I try to roll the days events through my head, I try to see where things went wrong, and I begin to decide upon my next move. I feel the razor blade in the palm of my hand, and work on an action plan. There's one of me, and four of them, but if things go well, there could be three of us and four of them, which can't be nearly as bad as one to four. The first copper is standing next to me, the other behind the next chatting with the cashier and the manager, them also making a game plan, I'm sure. I start to remember that there are benefits to only having one of me, the main one being that my plans will never be vocalized. Luckily, they have no idea that I have make-shifted a weapon, therefore also giving me the benefit of the element of surprise. I think I'll only have to injure the one standing next to me in order to get out of the room, and then I can shut the door and hopefully block them in with something in the hallway. The cashier will probably try to help the one that I get with the blade, and the other cop and the manager will probably try to chase me. I think over the things that I'll need to pay attention to, like seeing if the manager tends to guard one door over the others. I have five doors to check, and then I remember the code, 2-0-1-7, and recite it in my head. It's time. I have to start my plan before they start theirs, and I haven't been listening to what they're talking about in their hushed voices, so I don't know if that's soon or not, but since their voices are still hushed and they haven't spoken to me about anything yet, I think I have a minute.

I know that if I stand, they're more likely to notice than if I keep my height the same, sneaking out sideways, and making swift motions. I shimmy to the edge of my seat, and slide off quickly, stabbing the cop on his right arm, making sure to hit deep so the blood will distract them. As I pass his other side, I nick his left arm as well, knowing the surprise of a double-attack will be strong. I run out the door, and as I shut it in their faces, I'm highly surprised to see not five other doors, but two. I have no idea what kind of shit they think they're pulling, but I grab a chair sitting at the end of the hallway, and stick it under the doorknob. It may not be especially effective, but it'll have to do. I don't exactly have a plethora of options, so it'll have to work. I punch 2-0-1-7 into the keypad on the next door, knowing that they won't expect me to know the code, therefore checking the other room first. I shut the door quietly, because I think they've gotten over the surprise element and are now in panic mode, probably also attack mode, and I need to move quickly if I want to get out of here. The room is dark, and I consider turning the light on, thinking about whether the light will seep out from the crack under the door, or whether it'll be light enough out there to not be noticed. I decide to play it safe, and instead use my cell phone as a light source. I see nobody in here, and I think it may be a storage room for important documents. I slip behind a file cabinet, hearing their shouts, knowing they'll check in here soon. I hear the key pad being punched, the doorknob rattling from the quick motions, and I stay quiet and motionless as the door opens, the light flicks on, and someone peeks their head in, probably the manager, telling the others that the room is cleared. The light shuts off and he closes the door again, leaving me in the darkness. My thoughts begin to control my head again, and I wonder whether this whole plot was to get me, or if it was to get my friends. I guess either way, it doesn't matter, because now they know that I've figured them out, and since I've injured one of them, they want me anyways. Their loud voices are becoming less audible, and I decide to check the other room. I'll have to leave using an emergency exit. It may set off an alarm, but I'll have a head start. I slip out of the room, and into the next. I switch the light on, and again, see nobody. My mind works every option, thinking of where my friends could be, and I come up with nothing. I don't even have the faintest clue as to where they're being held, and at this point, I'm not sure that it matters. I just have to get myself out of this now. I head back to the hallway, and look for an emergency exit, which I spot quickly, and run out. The one thing I didn't account for, however, was the fact that they would be calling for backup. As I hit the outside air, I see that there are flashing lights surrounding the whole building, not just one car, but seven. I guess I did more damage than I thought, because I also see an ambulance. Because I didn't expect so many people with an eye out for me, I didn't exactly leave quietly, and instantly, I'm hit with the bright lights of the police cars. I see three of them walking towards me, guns up. I try to think of what I did with the blade in the midst of all this nonsense, and I can't even begin to think clearly. My mind has given up any sense it had of clarity. I can't check my pockets, but I know it's not in my hands, so any plans for use it would've had is abandoned. I take my focus back to the world around me, and look at the barrels of those guns, pointed at me. I raise my hands to the air, and say nothing, move nowhere, giving up internally just as much as I had externally. Their steps quicken when they see my lack of motivation, and I feel myself spinning, I feel handcuffs and I hear heavily practiced laws flowing from the mouths of the officers. I hear something about assaulting an officer, and hear hushed speaking, words like “paranoia” and “schizophrenia” and “psycho” mixed into the conversation. Confusion slaps my brain with doubt, and I wonder whether I had been right all along or not. Thoughts swirl through my head, and I try to reassure myself, failing miserably. From what I've heard of their conversations though, I'll most likely be put in a white ward with a gown and a cot and rooms with shrinks and pills and propaganda telling me why I need to swallow this one or that one and education regarding mental illness. I'm about halfway between reality and my head, and I need to choose. I need to decide what to believe. I can no longer trusts my eyes, my senses. I don't know who I can trust, what to believe, what's real and what isn't. I'm ushered into the ambulance, strapped on a stretcher, with two paramedics and a cop watching my every move.

I move back to my thoughts. We are all animals. We are all full of fear and hate and wonder and surprise and guilt and regret and ambition, and pride for the same sort of nothings that fill high school resumes. We all act on instincts, none of us have the morale we like to pretend we do. We are all fucked up. We are all fucked.