The beginnings of one novel idea (started 18 years ago!)

As he rushed up to me, dropping the Bulls hat he'd used to conceal the gun, I didn't even try to run. Getting shot in the stomach maybe I could handle, but being shot from behind scared me to death. I knew he was going to kill me. In this city, you give up your money, your car, your virginity, and you die anyway.

I was afraid of not knowing when it would come, afraid of the noise of the pistol. My skin turned cold. Then an eerie calm settled over me, almost as if I was merely watching, yet curiously aware of every detail. Him, shifting from one foot to the other like he had to go to the bathroom...me, trying not to cry, trying not to laugh, trying not to feel anything.

Was it money? Was it a gang initiation? The cold hard steel thrusting into my stomach held no answer. I couldn't even look at his face beyond that first instinctive glance of the eyes, but I smelled him...the intimate smell of his cologne, his shaving lotion, the detergent on his clothes. Chest hair curling over the brisk white tank, a silver bracelet quivering in the light of the street lamp, gray pants in motion hanging loosely over his Nikes. Nice of you to dress so formally. I could feel him shaking through the gun.

"Don't move. Give me your purse, bitch." I am not a bitch. In my haste, I dropped the purse to the ground from its secure place under my arm.

"Stupid bitch! Get it!" He didn't even sound angry, but the gun pushed deeper into me as I bent over, thrusting under my shirt. I thought I would vomit, but the pressure of the gun, the heat from his hand just inches from my skin made me too self-conscious. He grabbed the purse from my hands with his smooth, uncalloused hand, pushing the gun even further into me, hurting me. I winced, but remained silent. Schooled at feeling nothing, I could only look into his dark eyes.

He stood there for a moment, taking in my face, plain and blank. In his eyes, in the light of the streetlamps, I saw desolation and something else. He moved closer, and I could see a single drop of sweat sliding out from under his neat, dark hair. He brushed past me, his warm arm almost caressing mine, as if he was in no hurry.

He turned one last time. His gun fired aimlessly, orange and gray in my memory, whistling into nowhere. Then he was gone, sweeping around the fence into the parking lot.

I stood stunned, not quite sure if it was safe to move yet, still shocked to be alive. I looked up to see six guys running toward me from the karate shop in the back of the lot. A thousand voices, "Are you alright?" I couldn't answer. Deep inside, this heightened sense of each movement, of each smell, of each detail. The coarse, moist hands of my would-be rescuers guiding me to the curb. The smell of pungent sweat from the karate guys. The sound of cars slowing, passing on the street. And finally, the lights of two police cars. The men crowded around the patrol car, pointing and talking furiously. One left, heading in the same general direction of the thief.

It was then that I sat down hard on the curb, knees suddenly weak, only to spring back up again, my protective shell shattering in the blinding lights of the police car. What if he saw them talking to me? Over the blaring police radio, I heard the dispatcher calling for assistance in a drive-by shooting two blocks from us. Thirteen year old boy, shot in the back. Dead. Why not me?

"Are you alright, ma'am?" Officer Hayden, according to his name tag, got out of his car like a man eager to fight, clipboard in hand.

All I could manage at first was a shrug. "I'm alive. Who am I to complain?"

"All right then, let's get some details." The clipboard clattered as he began his report. Questions fired from between his pursed lips, fingers pushing so hard on the pen, it looked like he was making the report out in braille. I told him what he wanted to know...my name, address, phone. Do I have any I.D.? Um, no. I suddenly wanted to laugh.

The officer was trying to be protective, sympathetic. He found my slight smile annoying. "We need details on the suspect." He leaned toward me, his soft face pale and prickly. "Can you remember what he looked like?"

Down to the cologne he wore. I started to laugh, coughed instead as I told him everything I could remember. His gold pen gleamed orange in the light. I didn't know why I felt like laughing. Perhaps it was some kind of self-protection. Mental karate.

"Fact is, we see this almost every night...night is when the scum come out." He called in the description, staring at the karate guys with a frown. I'm not scum, I thought. I don't even live in a scummy neighborhood. I don't even have any money...he's the one with the Nikes.

"What was in your purse, ma'am?"

"Four dollars, diver's license, check book, two credit cards, pictures of my family, and my library card."

He scribbled some more on his report. "Be sure to cancel your credit cards right away, and your checks."

Do I look like an idiot to you? I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter trapped in. I was embarrassed because I wasn't amused. I was scared stiff, trembling even, but still, this impulse to laugh wouldn't leave. The officer looked at me strangely.

"Sign right here, ma'am," he said with the tired, bored voice of a man on the streets. "Be sure to be extra cautious at home for a while...muggers don't usually go to their victims' houses, but just to be safe. Would you like a ride home?"

"No thank you." I didn't want to go home. I wanted desperately to get out of there. To be in the quiet sanctity of my car with the music blaring and the doors locked. to be driving away from the city to any place.

I was seized with the desire to cry, but with everyone hovering around, telling anyone who would listen their version of the story, I folded my arms tightly around myself and began to walk to my car instead.

"We can follow you home if you'd like, ma'am."

For the rest of my life? "Thank you, no."