On Foot and Female

Women should not put themselves in peril by living as a pedestrian. For all of the carjackers and drunk drivers out there it is still far more dangerous for a woman to be alone on foot, or on foot at all, than it is to drive. To the extent that driving places women on the menu of the many violent criminals that stalk them, the trend is for the lady to be attacked while stopped, while getting in and out of her vehicle, and while walking to and from her vehicle. While I respect no man who makes the claim without having the balls to walk the streets of his town, I do not think any woman should walk alone.

The dilemma that the women I have interviewed expound on consistently is not so much that men are larger and stronger, but that they are faster. This is a huge issue. The foot speed disparity between ordinary men and women is even greater than that between male and female athletes. In contrast a man on the street will be bigger than some assailants, smaller and faster than others, and enjoy a rough parity with others. Possibly the best self-defense for women is to have them play ball and run track & field as children and teens, so that they at least have the option of flight.

The lady who is the subject of this piece is middle-aged and therefore came of age before the widespread promotion of scholastic sports for girls and young women. She is a single working mother standing about five feet and six inches and weighing about 170 pounds. She said that she weighed about 130 pounds when the majority of the following encounters impinged upon her simple quest to earn a living for herself and her daughter.

The Walk of Shame

"It was a Monday morning late in January, about nine-thirty. It was damp and cold and misty. I got dropped off at the courthouse thinking I would be able to use the ATM machine there and get some change from the cashier for bus fare home. No, A, T, M! There was no way I was bumming change—that would have drawn the lowlifes like flies. You can't put yourself in people's power like that. I started walking down Kelso Drive past the courthouse and industrial park.

First this box truck with two young men in it—in their twenties—pulled just ahead of me—had my back to traffic, a mistake—and said, 'You want a ride?'

I said, 'My legs will get me where I need to go', and they pulled off. I was texting my sister-and-law for a ride. I knew I didn't want to walk all the way home. But I just didn't want to be standing at the stop with all of those lowlifes, dope fiends, perverts and panhandlers. I knew I'd have to contend with some guy at the stop. They'll never leave you alone.

Then this old white van pulls over in front of me and the guy gets out—looks like a mad scientist—and I'm saying to myself, 'Serial killer!' But he just had to fix his doors and drove off.

Then—now mind you this is all within five minutes—this brown Honda two-door driven by a lone man cuts in ahead of me, angles into the driveway of the business park, and waits, looking at me! This scared me. So I slowed down and held my hand with my keys in it close to my body. The two guys had scared me—you get in a car with two guys and you might never be heard from again. But the guy that pulled over and waited made me more nervous. I thought to myself, 'Will I have to run? Will I have to defend myself?'

My brother picked me up after about fifteen minutes. I should have walked toward traffic. That was a lesson learned."

I Know Your Mother

"It was a nice day, sunny and bright. I'm going to say springtime. I got off work at the diner. It was about three o'clock, when school lets out. I worked the breakfast shift. I was standing at the bus stop and this cabby in a yellow cab rolled up to the curb, rolls down the window—a big fat sweaty Whiteman—oooo! He leans over and says, 'Your mother needs you honey.'

Yeah right—it was his disgusting ass that was needing somebody. He was a grey-haired fat fuck looking for high school girls. He probably liked me because I smelled like grease and burgers!

I said, 'My mother doesn't know you, and she wouldn't send a cab-driver to come and get me!'

He said, 'No, I do [know her]. She called me and told me you would be out here and come and get you.'

I said, 'No, I'll get home soon enough.'

He was persistent with the same story; I guess three times. I just stood direct, said, 'No!' and wouldn't look at him, and he drove off. Who knows how many people that fat bastard raped and murdered before his heart finally blew up. I hope he died young and hard. My mother had warned me about strangers. She absolutely hated Halloween. She said it was just a chance for the perverts and the crazies to dress up."

Marital Bliss

"I was sitting on the sofa watching TV. It was lunchtime and my chyle was in school. I had already told him I was leaving him, which is the wrong thing to do. I learned that lesson. He knew I wasn't playin'. He came through the backdoor through the kitchen and into the dining room. We never used the front door. It stayed locked. He sat at the dining room table and was looking anxious and nervous. He was saying, 'You leavin' me? You think you gonna leave me?'—that kind of crap.

I knew it wasn't going to end up going too good. So I took a running dart for the front door to open it and get out. That's when he got me, at the front door. He grabbed me and spun me around and was choking me. It was a tussle. I was fighting back; broke loose somehow someway. I made it into the kitchen and grabbed the phone and dialed nine-one-one. He grabbed the phone and hung up. I told him, 'They'll be calling back, be coming.'

About ten seconds later they called back. I told them I wanted the police and he was flipping out, 'I'm gonna get fuckin' fired now!'

He had driven the City truck home for lunch. He got nervous and left—wouldn't stay around for the popo ta come. But it took them thirty minutes to get there—some dumb fucking short brother. My sister was there first. He was asking stupid questions like, 'When is he coming back?'

How the hell should I know you dumb pig?

He wouldn't arrest him for the bruises on my throat. I got frustrated and said, 'Somebody is goin' ta die in this house en it ain't gonna be me!'

He said that he could arrest me for saying that and left. My mother and sister were cussing his dumbass out.

I knew it wasn't over. But I was going to fight! My husband was about five-eleven one-sixty. Not a tough guy though. My brothers could have snapped him in half.

One night, I had just gotten in at about ten from work at da market. I sat on the sofa and talked with my daughter—she was about eight—and he wanted to know why I was getting home at ten when I was scheduled 'til nine. I kept trying to explain to the dummy that you have to ring out the last customers and then have to count your drawer—no use. He didn't get it. He said, 'How many dicks did you suck tonight you fuckin' whore?'

I stood and I don't know what came over me. I was screaming and charging and he had gout at the time. I don't remember that much but I was stomping his gouty foot and then we were rolling over the dining room table and ripping the curtain off the window. He had me in a headlock and I was biting his arm! It was an all-out brawl and my daughter was screaming, 'Stop it! Stop it!'

I think we just stopped because of my daughter. I said, 'Nikeekwa grab your coat!' and we left; went to my girlfriend's house and spent the night."

Trench Coat Dream Date

"I had met a girlfriend at the club on a spring night and ordered a draft beer. I didn't even finish it. I started feelin' weird—dizzy, right away. I knew I was drugged. I could not get it together. I was nauseous and my head was spinning and I knew I had to leave. My friend had a room above a bar down the street so I headed there. I was moving at a very fast pace and a car pulled over. I knew him. It was my employer's brother. He said, 'There is a guy running after you!'

I turned and looked and there was this guy in a trench coat. He stopped and turned around as soon as I saw him. He was tall and long-legged and had black curly hair like a Jew. The driver said, 'Can I take you anywhere?'

I was leery of that too. I didn't know him very well. I made it the rest of the way to the bar and up into the apartment where I got sick. I'm nervous about going to clubs or bars to this day. I really believe I had been drugged somehow. I don't know how to explain it. I don't even remember seeing the guy in the trench coat in the club."

Mister Rainy Day

"I was seventeen, dressed in black pants and white blouse. It was a cool rainy day at about three in the afternoon. I was coming home from work on the fifteen. The bus was packed. I got on and sat on the left hand side next to the window, and put my purse and umbrella under my arm between my side and the bus wall.

I thought my purse was rubbing me. Something was rubbing my left side between my hip and my breast; rubbing up and down with the bumping of the bus. When I looked down the man behind me snatched his hand back. He had slipped his hand up between the back of my seat and the wall and was groping me!

He was tall with blonde hair and wireframe glasses. I stood up and turned around. He tried to hide behind his newspaper and I said, 'Don't be actin' like you readin' you pervert!'

I had a regular umbrella; one of the long ones with the pointy top. I never thought to stab him—I would now! Right in the face—rrrgh! I grabbed his paper and pulled it down with my left hand and started beating him with my umbrella, beating him on the head while I screamed at him. The bus driver didn't do anything—a coward! He [the pervert] didn't say anything to me; not a word!

When I sat back down the elderly woman next to me was shaking and hunched over. I apologized for the profanities I was screaming. She patted me on the leg and said, 'It's okay hon. Calm down. It's okay.'

I was worried that he might get off at my stop—he was tall and creepy like Jeffry Dahmer [the serial killer]. He got off six stops before me. I was shaken and disgusted. I was violated on the MTA!"