What Do You Think Happened To Me?
As I lay flat on my back in the yard, I wondered why Larry didn’t come for me. I wondered for a long, long time.
Meanwhile, instead of walking the block-and-a-half around the slum building into our backyard, Larry walked five blocks to the gas station.
Yes, the gas station.
Because in Pitcairn, the gas station in the center of town is where the police hang out. So if anyone needs a police officer, Pitcairn residents know where to find one.
Larry thought I was dead.
And he had just beaten me senseless before I jumped. That could mean trouble for Larry.
So Larry – who has more street smarts in one little finger than I will ever have – went to get a police officer before checking on me.
And Larry walked to the gas station, because he knew he wasn’t sober enough, in the eyes of the law, to drive.
I didn’t know any of this; I just stayed flat on the ground in the dark.
After what seemed like an hour, I saw a flashlight beam. I couldn’t lift my head; I assumed Larry’d arrived.
The police officer walked toward me slowly, checking for signs of life. He shone the flashlight onto my face, startling when he realized I was not only alive, but bruised, beaten and bloody.
He exclaimed, “What happened to you?”
By then, I’d forgotten I’d been pummeled. “I jumped out the fucking window,” I snapped. “What do you think happened to me?”
“Are you all right?” He continued to shine the light directly into my eyes.
“No I’m not all right!” I growled. “I jumped out the fuckin’ window!” The flashlight was blinding, my face ached when I tried to squint, and every part of my body hurt when I squirmed even slightly.
The police officer didn’t quit. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“I don’t need a fucking ambulance,” I said. “Just leave me alone.”
The police officer mercifully waved the flashlight from me and onto Larry, which is when I noticed Larry for the first time.
“Well she’s alive,” the officer said.
Larry surprisingly laughed. He was either so relieved that he was now giddy, or he thought it was funny that I was in this painful predicament.
The officer did not laugh. “What are you planning to do?”
“I guess I’m not gonna do anything,” Larry said.
“You wanna just leave her here? Or … you want me to write up a report?”
Larry stood over me, gazing down at my limp body in the dark. “Nah, she’s all right,” Larry said. “Thanks for coming, Officer.”
“Okay,” the police officer said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Larry walked with the officer out of our yard.
He did not come back.
I waited for the help I so desperately needed but, by request, I’d been left alone. Again.
Eventually, I rolled my stunned and obliterated body over, lying on my face for awhile. Then I pushed myself onto all fours like a dog to crawl, one minuscule movement at a time. I crawled out of our backyard, crawled down the block, crawled back up the block, crawled onto our porch, pushed open the unlocked door, and crawled up the stairs into our apartment.
I passed out on the floor.
At sunrise Larry woke me: “Ya still comin’?”
My pulverized body felt steamrolled by a dump truck. My eyes wouldn’t open.
“Yeah,” I said.
I crawled down the stairs and into the car. We were going to Bike Week in Florida.