Blind Luck (Part 1)

          As my luck would have it, I have been kidnapped, robbed, tied up, and accosted three times.  I know what you are thinking.  Third time’s a charm?  My thoughts exactly; but I am not a conspiracy theorist, or believe in the idea that three is the magical number, nor do I believe someone is out to get me.  Doing something three times will not necessarily produce a successful outcome.  If that was the case, I am still looking for the magical purpose of my three assaults.  Unless you consider avoiding death a success—then I have succeeded.

Luck has a long memory.  It lives deep within the gut, silent, still, waiting for the moment of need where it will reach deep down for the necessary action to match the circumstance at hand.  They say luck is being in the right place at the right time; or being ready when opportunity calls.  My luck appears at the wrong time with the right memory.

Like being in the wrong parking lot with the right car when the first goon assailant walked up, harboring a penchant for the car I traveled in, stuck a knife in my face (I would have passed out right then and there if he had also showed me the butcher knife hidden on his person), hopped in and spent a good portion of the day driving around with me.  Thirty-one years later in the lingerie boutique I owned, as pure luck would have it, the second goon entered my store and we spent some un-quality time together.  To top off my lucky streak, two years after #2 goon visited, two drugged out—a cocky dickhead and his visiting cousin (thought they could scare me into donating some cash to their cause— ‘cause they had no money to suspend themselves in the groovy, liminal space provided by a good high) made their way into my store a half hour before closing.

            “Hey baby, we just wanna ask you something.  Can we ask you something?”

Gut instinct honed at an early age provides many fine tunings to your psyche.  You grow those eyes in the back of your head; your ears have evolved with the acuity of a new mother listening to her sleeping baby’s breath; you become sensitized to the slightest pressure change in the air, when a fist comes down behind your head and you alter your position with the minutest precision to avoid contact. 

Their un-luck was my luck in knowing their kind of trouble, honed from prior years of my own poor luck.  It saved me.  It fucked them.   Holding up the braceleted key fob alarm that I slipped onto my wrist the moment I saw them open the door, the fob that matched the three others installed in various areas of the store in remembrance of the second goon, including one in the blind spot (kicking myself for letting my ‘oh how quaint and cozy this store will be with these secret hiding places — won’t customers feel so comfortable knowing they can shop for their dildos and thongs in privacy?’ take precedence over the obvious ‘line of sight’ requirements for safety), I pushed the button feverishly.

You have to leave.  The store is closing.  You need to leave.  I am closing the store.  The store is closed.  You have to go…

‘Hey baby, you are looking good, tonight.  I can smell you from here.  You smell so fine, baby.  Come on, we aren’t going to hurt you.”

You have to leave.  The store is closing.  Did you just say you weren’t going to hurt me?  You need to leave.  You must go.

And I was thinking why would those words even come out of their mouth?  Hurt and shopping are not synonymous with retail, I am sure; that is, unless you are a woman shopping for a bathing suit for a romantic vacation in Mexico, standing in front of the poorly lit mirror, admonishing the tire of holiday blubber still attached to your waist. 

I am closing the store.  The store is closed.  You have to go… I was now shaking the key fob in front of my face, as if to scold these young rascals into leaving the premise.  My voice was firm and resolved, yet every muscle was twitching, my blood boiled as it pulsed through my heart at warp speed.  I was not doing this victim thing again, damn it.  Hold it together, woman.  I purposively made my way towards the front door, hand shaking, finger pressing the button 98 times at least, as if the police would get there any sooner with each additional push, nerves twitching, blood boiling.  They stood their ground.

            “Come on, baby.  We just wanna talk to you.”  

The store is closed.  You HAVE to go now.

Did they hear my heart as it ripped through my clothing, screaming ‘oh, shit, not again’ panic in rhythmic cadence?  Was fear plastered in brilliant hues on my forehead, pulsating through my trembling lips?

...to be continued.....