few
moments, being personal with me. Her apologies were a way of maintaining
distance and formality. She turned toward the window and braced herself up a
few inches to see the sidewalk. I knew that soon I would manoeuvre myself into
position to see what she was looking at. Everything seemed to be okay and she
turned back to me with an empty sigh. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like I’ve
been to heaven and been brought back to earth. I’ve seen how things should be
and now I’m here seeing how things really are.” Her head glanced around again.
I got
up, folded my hands across my chest, and leaned against the wall. I could see
the raven-haired woman on the street, hand in hand with the boy—the same boy I
had seen her with at the mall—and I wondered why Clarissa, if she had someone
to watch her child, would have them tag along on her work rounds. As I listened
to Clarissa and watched the plotless drama on the street, I noted a black
Mercedes turn the corner and cruise by. I noted it because it was the second
time I had seen it in less than a minute and it was significantly under speed.
This second time it passed, the raven-haired woman saw it and took a few steps
back. The car slowed to a stop, then reversed itself. Clarissa saw me looking
out the window and she rose and turned to me, scared. The car was now stopped
in the street, carelessly angled. The driver got out of the car and left the
door open, approaching the woman and child. He was groomed like a freshly cut
lawn. A trim beard framed his face; close-cut grey sideburns fringed his bald
head. His suit was well cut and dark and set off by a stark white shirt. I
could hear him yelling and cursing. He was wound tight and unwinding rapidly
in front of us.
A
horrible chain reaction occurred. The man, who looked like an Armani-clad
Mussolini, increased his screaming and made his hand into a beak and began
poking at the woman like an angry swan. She was knocked unsteady with each jab
but defended herself with angry, equal shouts. But the man lost control and
pushed her too hard. She lurched back, tripping. But she was holding the hand
of the boy and as she fell, he fell with her. With this blow the chain reaction
became uncontained, entering my apartment. I felt the shove that drove the boy
to the ground and experienced his terror at the noise and violence. I was down
the steps running toward the scene, hearing Clarissa screaming and running
behind me, hearing Tiger barking from Philipa’s window. I took the steps in
threes as the legendary slow-motion of panic set in and turned seconds into
minutes. I wondered, in these moments while time stretched itself, why I could
not step off a curb but stairs did not present a problem. Why could I not
rename the curb to stair step and be on my way? Why do I see the light from a
lamp as a quantity and not as a degree? Because it was written on the bulb,
that’s why. I suddenly knew what my enabler was: language. It was my enemy.
Language allowed me to package similar entities in different boxes, separate
them out, and assign my taboos. I was at the bottom of the stairs when time
caught up to itself. A child’s scream broke my thoughts; chaotic and angry
voices jarred me. I heard my breath gasp and heave as I turned and headed
toward the lawn.
The
attacker pushed his voice to a rasp and I heard him yelling cunt, cunt, you cunt.
I was barrelling across the grass when he turned and grabbed the child’s arm,
trying to pull him up, but I threw myself between them and covered the boy like
a tarpaulin. The man tried to pull me off, but I had clenched my fist around a
countersunk lawn sprinkler and I was impossible to move. He began to kick my
ribs. Fuck you fuck he said.
He tore
at my shirt trying to lift me off the boy, whose shrieks had intensified, had
penetrated Philipa’s apartment, and had roused an angry superman. For the next
thing I knew, the bearded man had been lifted off me and thrown against his
car. And I
moments, being personal with me. Her apologies were a way of maintaining
distance and formality. She turned toward the window and braced herself up a
few inches to see the sidewalk. I knew that soon I would manoeuvre myself into
position to see what she was looking at. Everything seemed to be okay and she
turned back to me with an empty sigh. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like I’ve
been to heaven and been brought back to earth. I’ve seen how things should be
and now I’m here seeing how things really are.” Her head glanced around again.
I got
up, folded my hands across my chest, and leaned against the wall. I could see
the raven-haired woman on the street, hand in hand with the boy—the same boy I
had seen her with at the mall—and I wondered why Clarissa, if she had someone
to watch her child, would have them tag along on her work rounds. As I listened
to Clarissa and watched the plotless drama on the street, I noted a black
Mercedes turn the corner and cruise by. I noted it because it was the second
time I had seen it in less than a minute and it was significantly under speed.
This second time it passed, the raven-haired woman saw it and took a few steps
back. The car slowed to a stop, then reversed itself. Clarissa saw me looking
out the window and she rose and turned to me, scared. The car was now stopped
in the street, carelessly angled. The driver got out of the car and left the
door open, approaching the woman and child. He was groomed like a freshly cut
lawn. A trim beard framed his face; close-cut grey sideburns fringed his bald
head. His suit was well cut and dark and set off by a stark white shirt. I
could hear him yelling and cursing. He was wound tight and unwinding rapidly
in front of us.
A
horrible chain reaction occurred. The man, who looked like an Armani-clad
Mussolini, increased his screaming and made his hand into a beak and began
poking at the woman like an angry swan. She was knocked unsteady with each jab
but defended herself with angry, equal shouts. But the man lost control and
pushed her too hard. She lurched back, tripping. But she was holding the hand
of the boy and as she fell, he fell with her. With this blow the chain reaction
became uncontained, entering my apartment. I felt the shove that drove the boy
to the ground and experienced his terror at the noise and violence. I was down
the steps running toward the scene, hearing Clarissa screaming and running
behind me, hearing Tiger barking from Philipa’s window. I took the steps in
threes as the legendary slow-motion of panic set in and turned seconds into
minutes. I wondered, in these moments while time stretched itself, why I could
not step off a curb but stairs did not present a problem. Why could I not
rename the curb to stair step and be on my way? Why do I see the light from a
lamp as a quantity and not as a degree? Because it was written on the bulb,
that’s why. I suddenly knew what my enabler was: language. It was my enemy.
Language allowed me to package similar entities in different boxes, separate
them out, and assign my taboos. I was at the bottom of the stairs when time
caught up to itself. A child’s scream broke my thoughts; chaotic and angry
voices jarred me. I heard my breath gasp and heave as I turned and headed
toward the lawn.
The
attacker pushed his voice to a rasp and I heard him yelling cunt, cunt, you cunt.
I was barrelling across the grass when he turned and grabbed the child’s arm,
trying to pull him up, but I threw myself between them and covered the boy like
a tarpaulin. The man tried to pull me off, but I had clenched my fist around a
countersunk lawn sprinkler and I was impossible to move. He began to kick my
ribs. Fuck you fuck he said.
He tore
at my shirt trying to lift me off the boy, whose shrieks had intensified, had
penetrated Philipa’s apartment, and had roused an angry superman. For the next
thing I knew, the bearded man had been lifted off me and thrown against his
car. And I
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