Rescue Me

Old hands grabbed me around the shoulders, keeping me from face planting after having the shit scared out of me.

“Sorry, Miss Tempest. I was just moving from the park to the doorway here.” Thomas Walker was homeless, nearing his sixties. He preferred the solitary life on the streets, bouncing from park to park instead of the shelter down the street, after battling years of mental illness. He was a war ve

teran who wore a worn olive green coat and a long facial beard grayed with time. Even his boots looked like they had battled.

“You frightened me. I didn’t expect anyone to be there.”

“No worries, Tempest. I saw your friend patrolling the park and figured I’d make his job easier.” Mr. Walker must have meant Officer Hernandez or someone from the precinct on tonight. There was a no sleeping in the park ordinance and many of the homeless in the city had been displaced over the past few years during the mayor’s neighborhood clean-up initiative.

“I should have taken some pie for you, Mr. Walker.”

“Another time, Tempest.” His gap toothed smile was warm and he squeezed my hands reassuringly. “Make sure you get home safe.” He brushed past me, carrying his duffle bag and settled into the nook of the shop doorway where he muttered to himself. He was harmless and friendly and he’d been around for years. I wondered if he’d had any family and made a note to grab a slice of pumpkin pie for him after my next shift. I figured everyone could use a kindness; the world was a tough enough place without anyone to call your family or friend. Thanksgiving was approaching and I hoped he found a safe place as the weather turned colder each night.

One block and I would be home for the night. My knee-length coat was zipped up to my chin and the air was crisp on my stocking clad legs. Seeing Joey had been a thrill and maybe I’d put on my dance shoes despite how tired my feet were and practice in my apartment. Chuck had given me the day off for my audition and everyone was rooting for me. I might even be able to quit working regular hours at the diner if I made the Rockette’s troupe of dancers. Finally I’d be on my way and all those part-time jobs, auditions, and holding out hope for a miracle would pay off.

The pain that slammed into my middle caught me off guard as did the pull on my hair. “Bitch!” Rough hands dragged me away from the sidewalk in between two buildings before I remembered to struggle, kicking out.

“No!”

A resounding slap hit my cheek and burned the skin from the cold. Thick arms grabbed me around the middle and pulled me back before my fight or flight response kicked in. Helpless, I screamed before his dirty hand covered my mouth to silence me.

“Quiet or I’ll hurt you.” Words didn’t register, but my dreams of dancing under hot, bright lights and Joey’s face flashed in my head like fleeting thoughts. The threat of my attacker doing something worse and leaving me here in the alley spurred me on to fight against him as if grasping onto those visions would make them true. He slapped me, hit me, and my body was tossed hard against the brick facade, jarring my body.

“No! Help!”

He came at me again, this time pushing me to the ground, my knee hitting hard and my stockings ripping. Everything hurt. A green city dumpster was behind me on black asphalt, the stench tempered by the wind and temperature of the night.

I crawled back, tripping over my damn legs; the most ungraceful I’d ever been in my life. He stood over me, wearing all black and a cotton face mask that hid his identity.

“Leave her alone.” It was Mr. Walker, the homeless man who’d come to my rescue holding something in his hand, a pipe maybe or a board, I couldn’t tell.

“Or what, old man?”

“I’ve killed plenty in my lifetime. Yours wouldn’t bother me.” The pregnant pause that followed stopped my heart. My attacker spat at me and took off running. I scrambled to get up and out of the alley. Grime was imbedded in my palms and my knee felt unsteady and swollen.

My face hurt in the cold wind. In fact, everything hurt. Tears threatened, but the shock was worse. “I can’t believe this happened.” Scared I wanted nothing more than to pack up and flee. I couldn’t afford a place in a better neighborhood until I turned my audition into a paying job.

“Let’s get you home, Miss Tempest.” Mr. Walker escorted me to my apartment and helped me walk up the stairs. I sat down at my dinette table, and he puttered around my kitchen, heating up water on my hotplate for tea.

“Thank you, Mr. Walker.”

“It was no trouble.” He said that now, but I didn’t doubt that Mr. Walker would have hit that man attacking me. “Let’s get you cleaned up and settled.”

The sweet hot tea kept me from shaking and I managed to wash out my cuts decently, taking a pain reliever to help.

“You be careful walking home, Miss Tempest.” Mr. Walker left, telling me to lock up my door.

I peeked through my window and watched him bunker down near my building sheltered from the wind, watching, waiting. I didn’t realize how foolishly optimistic I had been until it was almost snatched away from me.

I didn’t go to my audition the next day, or work for the following week. My face was bruised, my knee swollen and immobile. I called Chuck, begging my boss to give me diner shifts during the day. Standing and bearing weight on my leg took longer than planned before I could carry heavy trays of food without dropping them. I was avoiding Officer Hernandez and life altogether. My dreams were dashed by the irrational fear of something happening after dark, and when a month had passed, my landlord placed a notice in my box, letting me know I was behind on my rent and could be evicted if I didn’t catch up soon.

Anxiety coursed through me nonstop and I was lucky I didn’t turn into someone completely homebound by the event. I was barely scratching out an existence, terrified of the shadows no one else could understand. I thought about going to the police station to report it, but by the time I gathered my wits, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t stomach Joey Hernandez taking my statement or assessing me with his dark eyes in pity. Mr. Walker and I talked about it several times, debating between his bouts of lucidity. I hadn’t been raped. Nothing had been stolen. I was roughed up by a punk walking home in the wee hours of the morning with my only witness a homeless man who suffered from schizophrenia when he wasn’t on his medications.

“Tempest, you got a minute?” I filled up the counter mugs with coffee, turning to see Denise handing Chuck a lunch ticket. She was one of the other waitresses that split the morning shift with me.

“Sure.” Nervously, I wiped my hands against my skirt.

“I, uh, heard you had a problem a few weeks ago.” Denise raised her dark eyebrows, and I glanced back at Chuck, pissed he would tell anyone my business.