:mad:
Anyway, last week someone stole my bike. Seems that this is a common crime in Santa Cruz (I’m living in Santa Cruz now, and attending UCSC, just in case you’re keeping score.) That’s not what’s urked my though. What’s urked me and kept me up all night is that this evening I was almost beaten up by a couple of guys down by the beach.
I don’t know who they are, but they’ve got it in for me because I wouldn’t tell them what time it was last Sunday. Really. You’d think I put a voodoo curse on their favorite aunt or their childhood pet or something, but no.
Anyway, I was noodling around the wharf on my new bicycle, a several-hundred dollar replacement for the one stolen because I chained it to the wrong limb of a shrub in front of my apartment (I’m living in an apartment complex now, by the way). I’m not bothering anyone, except maybe the people who hear me practicing my pirate voice (Arr Jimboy, and so forth. I swear being by the ocean makes me do it.) when I hear a voice call out “Hey, asshole.”
Huh? Who’s he talking to?
“Yeah, you with the bike. Remember me?”
No I don’t buddy, but I’m not gonna say so.
“I’m gonna get you, asshole.”
The realization kicks in. These are the two nimrods I didn’t give the time of day to over the weekend. Terrific. I decide to just ignore them and keep going, maybe a little faster than before. So I keep quiet and pass by them.
“GET HIM!”
So now they’re chasing me. I pedal harder and put some distance between myself and these guys. Then I run into my friend Victoria, who’s driving by. I give her a potted description, basically saying that these guys want to kill me. (Incidentally, if you’re reading this, hello again Victoria) I part with her and pedal down towards the Santa Cruz boardwalk. Then I turn around and start heading for home. Then I stop and look back at the wharf. Why? Partly because I’ve taken leave of my senses, and partly because I want to get these idiots’ license number or at least another look at their car. (In my first encounter with them, back on Sunday, they were in their car, which was a white two-door job from the seventies without a hood.)
Anyway, the car doesn’t appear so I pedal down the boardwalk again. As I’m coming back to the intersection with the wharf, there they are again. With sickening predictability the pattern repeats. They shout at me and come running, cursing me and saying they’ll beat my ass, and I pedal off. Except this time I have to pass over a pair of railroad tracks embedded in the pavement. I hit them at just the wrong angle, and promptly end up spilling out and landing on my left hand. (Why? Because I’m left-handing, of course. Argh.) Much laughter from the two hooligans, who fail to take this opportunity to catch up and beat my ass.
I pick myself up and walk into a corner convenience store to get some bandages for my skinned up fingers, and realize for the first time how frigid my hands are since I’ve been cycling around for a couple hours in the dark. I buy the bandages, and some rubbing alcohol which I dunk my fingers in. Strange how I can buy rubbing alcohol without ID (I’m 20) but I’ve got another year to wait before I can buy liquor, which is what I really wanted at that point.
After stopping for a cup of coffee downtown I return home, soak my fingers in hot water, and ruminate over the evenings events. At this point, almost an hour after the incident, my adrenilin finally kicks in (along with the caffine.) So now I’m exhausted, in pain, twitchy, demoralized, and ready to hit something. Terriffic.
I start thinking, which was a mistake. What the hell did I let them scare me like that for. Oh yeah, there were two of them and I don’t want to get in trouble with the police, even if it was self-defense. I feel violated, humiliated, and generally lousy. I need to talk to someone, so I call my mother. I almost called the police, but I decided to wait until I could speak to someone in person tomorrow. I also called my father the navy officer, currently in Qatar or Kuwait or on a ship in the Persian Gulf supervising a small part of Operation Sodomize Hussein. This helps a little, but then I try to go to bed. I’m suddenly afraid they’ll break in and try to beat me up. Now I’m paranoid, just like I always pretended to be in High School. I’m actually going to keep a kitchen knife on my bedside table, God alone knows why. But it makes me feel better, ridiculous as it sounds.
The total calculus for the evening:
I’m several dollars down for a cup of coffee, a packet of band-aids, and a bottle of alcohol I can’t drink. Tomorrow I’ll have to buy a new front light for my bike, my left hand has been skinned up quite nicely, and my ego has been run over by an eighteen wheeler. Argh!
Seriously, I’m in a funk about it. I feel humiliated and scarred (I mean mentally, although my hand is scraped up as well.) I’m annoyed about letting these punks get to me, and I wish, for the first time, that I had a knife or a gun or something to defend myself with besides my own strength, such as it is.
I feel like I should have stood my ground and fought them. Of course, I know that rationally this is stupid. Two against one isn’t a good set of odds, and they may well have had the exact sort of knives or guns that I lacked. Still, I wish I hadn’t run away, even though in all likelyhood it was the right decision. It’s probably a result of watching a few too many westerns, but I feel like a bit of a coward, even though I know I’m definately not one. I hate feeling like this. I hate doubting myself (I’m usually confident and secure about myself. It’s been a long time since I wasn’t), and I hate the idea of two fuckwits making me doubt myself. I’m better than this, or I feel like I should be.
I really need advice.
.
You know, where the contents of the supplements is Generally Not Clear?