Glad To Be Here, Part Two

Part II: Spiking the Guns  (part I is here)

Drug deal, less than twenty feet away, after ten at night, one way street:

--I either have to back into Zoo traffic or drive past them. That�s if I can find the anti-theft device key and then the ignition key on my key ring before they see me.
--I can cower in the seat. But they can also walk by and see me, hunched on the floorboard or lying down on the seat, acting like a cornered witness. Blam.
--I can run, but then they know I�ve seen them doing the wrong. I also have to find the key to the front door (metal) and front door (wood) before I�m safely inside. Not enough time. Possible shot in the back. There is no other place to run, no other refuge.
--I don�t have a cell phone. This was before everybody had a cell phone. Anyway, there�s no time to explain: it�s happening Now.
--I can sit and watch: no, no, I don�t want to do that. They haven�t exchanged yet--

The flowers.

I pick up my purse, my bookbag, the vase of gladiolas. I unlock the car door and I get out. I slam my car door, hard.

�Guess what happened to me?� I call out to them, loudly. I walk right up to them. They�re surprised by this. �I got these flowers at my work, absolutely free, but there�s way too many. I want you to have some.�


Oh, my god, this is my stupidest trick yet.

They stare at me. Years of neighborhood interaction are possibly in my favor, but they don�t necessarily count this minute. I grab a bunch of gladiolas. �Here,� I say. I hold them out, and one of the guys� hands reaches out to accept. Then he puts his hand back down.

�No, baby,� he says. �My girlfriend�s in the shelter, and it�s closed right now.�

�No, please,� I insisted. �They were free to me, and they�re free to you. If you can�t give them to your girl, then give them to a different stranger. Just�spread the happiness.�

He takes them. We look at them in the glow of a far-off street light, although, I�m really looking past the blooms and at his face. The park�s trees hide most of the light, but the flowers glow with goodwill or perhaps divine intervention. If this doesn�t work�

�I know,� he bursts out. �I�ll take them to my Mama�s house.�

�Yeah, she�ll love them.� I hand them over. �Have a great night!�

The other guy is not part of the deal at all. He doesn�t want any flowers, waves them away.
All I know is that one hand out of a possible four is not aiming a firearm at me, and I believe they are both distracted. I turn my back on them because I have to, in order to go to my front door. I walk as naturally as possible.

I unlock the metal door, the wood door. I step inside and lock the metal door, the wooden door. I run down the hall, unlock the door to my apartment and slam it shut. I run upstairs. My husband is asleep.

If I had failed, I would have been in the RiverTown newspaper. People all over the city would say what a dumb cluck I was. Fortunately for me, I was the only one who had to know it.

You know, I would say that the Club on either my truck's or the Caliente's steering wheel have nearly been the death of me at least twice--
or you could say an entire spectrum of substance abuse ruined my day--
or, you could say, ah, that was my stupidest trick yet.

Image: Watercolor by Cecilia Price.