he’s going to do something instead of just sit.
“Don’t call me
man,”
he says.
This is a decision point. Stay in here with this little calm guy or go outside
to what?
and risk something.
Nothing about life is ever safe. Every breath and every decision and every second is a risk.
This is no longer about me and about the woman named Jasmine. This is about my family tucked away safely in Deerfield, Illinois
.
“Why don’t you stay and talk for a few more moments. Be rational.”
You breathe in and look around and then know that there is only one thing you can do.
“See ya,
man,”
you say right before opening the door and sprinting outside.
H E STANDS A DOZEN YARDS AWAY from the door, close to the wall. A towering figure of black, unmovable. You don’t think but simply run at him, doing your best linebacker impression, steadying your shoulder for the dig into his gut. But it feels like barging into a statue. The man barely moves while you feel your shoulder crunch and sense a tight pain and then go bouncing off to the side. The man curses and for a minute looks like a bull being charged by a Chihuahua, as if he’s wondering
What in the world are you even trying to do?
You roll to one side and get back on your feet. You glance at him and see a hand going to his side.
You don’t stick around to see what he’s grabbing for.
Where’s Jasmine?
The hallway is dimly lit and you don’t notice the other guy coming your way. All you want to do is find the stairs.
As you gain your balance, something slams against your back and sends you flying.
You manage to fall on your knees and your hands. Somehow you get back up and turn around just in time to see the man who got you in the armlock down in the bathroom.
Not this time
.
Fear and adrenaline rush through your body and are almost so thick that you can taste them. You see the guy coming at you and grab him by his collar with your left hand, slamming your right fist against his cheek.
You punch him in the jaw once, then in the forehead, then in the ear. You punch several more times and feel his body go limp.
He didn’t see it coming. He didn’t see those punches in me
.
As he falls down, you turn around and begin running. You know the big guy in black is coming after you.
You find the large staircase and bolt down it, sending a half-drunk bystander sprawling down the stairs. If only you could have done that to the bruiser back there. You turn and continue down another flight of steps, heading to where you last saw Jasmine.
A quick glance upstairs reveals the man in black coming toward you like a robot. He’s in no hurry.
You get to the hallway and run past an open doorway thathas a picture of a woman on it. You back up and go inside. A lady sitting on a stool looks at you without surprise. She’s listening to a boom box and sits beside a counter full of gum, cigarettes, perfume, and various items of makeup and hairspray.
“There a blonde in here?”
“Lots of blondes in here,” the lady says, talking ten times slower than you.
“Now. Like right now?”
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“No. She came in here about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Nobody’s in here now.”
You turn and look toward the stairs.
“You sure?”
She nods and you go rushing out, away from the stairs and into one of the main rooms that has blasting hip-hop music. The dance floor is crowded with couples all moving to the beat and blending in to the vibrant yellows and reds from the lights.
You try to scan the room but it’s impossible.
Forget Jasmine
.
But a part of you can’t. A part of you won’t.
I’m getting out of here
.
You’re going to call him Johnny Cash, the man in black who stands by the door. He scans the room and finds you.
In his hand watch what’s in his hand
.
It’s not a gun. It’s a phone or a walkie-talkie.
You scan the room for somewhere else to go. Wall, wall, bar—
There it is
.
Another open entryway leads to
“Don’t call me
man,”
he says.
This is a decision point. Stay in here with this little calm guy or go outside
to what?
and risk something.
Nothing about life is ever safe. Every breath and every decision and every second is a risk.
This is no longer about me and about the woman named Jasmine. This is about my family tucked away safely in Deerfield, Illinois
.
“Why don’t you stay and talk for a few more moments. Be rational.”
You breathe in and look around and then know that there is only one thing you can do.
“See ya,
man,”
you say right before opening the door and sprinting outside.
H E STANDS A DOZEN YARDS AWAY from the door, close to the wall. A towering figure of black, unmovable. You don’t think but simply run at him, doing your best linebacker impression, steadying your shoulder for the dig into his gut. But it feels like barging into a statue. The man barely moves while you feel your shoulder crunch and sense a tight pain and then go bouncing off to the side. The man curses and for a minute looks like a bull being charged by a Chihuahua, as if he’s wondering
What in the world are you even trying to do?
You roll to one side and get back on your feet. You glance at him and see a hand going to his side.
You don’t stick around to see what he’s grabbing for.
Where’s Jasmine?
The hallway is dimly lit and you don’t notice the other guy coming your way. All you want to do is find the stairs.
As you gain your balance, something slams against your back and sends you flying.
You manage to fall on your knees and your hands. Somehow you get back up and turn around just in time to see the man who got you in the armlock down in the bathroom.
Not this time
.
Fear and adrenaline rush through your body and are almost so thick that you can taste them. You see the guy coming at you and grab him by his collar with your left hand, slamming your right fist against his cheek.
You punch him in the jaw once, then in the forehead, then in the ear. You punch several more times and feel his body go limp.
He didn’t see it coming. He didn’t see those punches in me
.
As he falls down, you turn around and begin running. You know the big guy in black is coming after you.
You find the large staircase and bolt down it, sending a half-drunk bystander sprawling down the stairs. If only you could have done that to the bruiser back there. You turn and continue down another flight of steps, heading to where you last saw Jasmine.
A quick glance upstairs reveals the man in black coming toward you like a robot. He’s in no hurry.
You get to the hallway and run past an open doorway thathas a picture of a woman on it. You back up and go inside. A lady sitting on a stool looks at you without surprise. She’s listening to a boom box and sits beside a counter full of gum, cigarettes, perfume, and various items of makeup and hairspray.
“There a blonde in here?”
“Lots of blondes in here,” the lady says, talking ten times slower than you.
“Now. Like right now?”
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“No. She came in here about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Nobody’s in here now.”
You turn and look toward the stairs.
“You sure?”
She nods and you go rushing out, away from the stairs and into one of the main rooms that has blasting hip-hop music. The dance floor is crowded with couples all moving to the beat and blending in to the vibrant yellows and reds from the lights.
You try to scan the room but it’s impossible.
Forget Jasmine
.
But a part of you can’t. A part of you won’t.
I’m getting out of here
.
You’re going to call him Johnny Cash, the man in black who stands by the door. He scans the room and finds you.
In his hand watch what’s in his hand
.
It’s not a gun. It’s a phone or a walkie-talkie.
You scan the room for somewhere else to go. Wall, wall, bar—
There it is
.
Another open entryway leads to
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