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If we had trusted our instincts all of the time, we wouldn't have been standing on the doorstep to my friend's apartment at one in the morning. Standing there, we may well have been hanging a neon sign above our heads with the word victim boldly emblazoned, blinking like a vacant sign at a motel.
Initially, I didn't hear the words. They came to me a good time after they were spoken, in the way that light travels faster than sound. First, I saw the gun, and then, in the distance, I heard the words traveling to me at a snail's pace. "Empty your pockets." The first thing I could think of was "But they are empty". I didn't say anything. I stood there, barely breathing, clutching the plastic-wrapped packages of crackers I had grabbed out of the bread basket at the diner where we had just eaten a late dinner. I looked at the concrete ground, at the shadows of the trees.
A moment later, I saw my friend's wallet flapping in his hand at the end of his outstretched arm. They grabbed it, then two of them frisked him thoroughly as the larger one stood beside me, gun in one hand, free hand pushing into my jeans pockets and shirt pockets.
I saw the flash of a second gun. Two guns.
I seemed to take in every movement through peripheral vision. I was absorbing every movement, every angle through my pores. I saw my friend's fingers at his wrist then his watch dangling in the air briefly before it was snatched away.
"Credit cards, how much...four dollars." Inventory. "Do you have a bank card?"
"No." my friend replied and I thought yes, you do. But I knew that there wasn't any money in the account.
They found the bank card. "Let's go." they said. "We're going to the bank."
We didn't want to go with them, whereever it was they wanted to take us. Two of us and the three of them, walking down the deserted neighborhood street, past silent buildings, past silent cars. The smaller one wore dark clothing and a hooded jacket with the hood pulled over his head, pointed on top, his face partially hidden. He had a silver gun. The middle one wore a white cotton jacket with stripes. The larger one wore all dark clothes. His gun was the biggest - 9mm and dull gray. I knew the gun from my "Illustrated Encyclopedia of Guns", a coffee table book I bought for myself one day even though I've never owned a coffee table. Or a gun.
Now we were being led down the street by three males with guns. We walked with them, cooperating. Calm.
"It's not going to work." my friend said several times, trying to explain that he had closed his account months before and forgot that he still had the bank card in his wallet. From their reaction and their quickening pace toward the bank on the corner, it was obvious they didn't believe him.
Where were the cars? I thought. Or the open 24 hour deli's that New York City is famous for having? Where were the people? Or the police, for that matter? Where were the guns point?
Where was my life? Not flashing before my eyes like it's supposed to do when you're faced with a life-threatening moment. I didn't think of my life at all. I listened to the humming in the air around us, our breathing, voices and words. I watched each one of us, moving in a nervous choreography. I felt for signals, cosmic psychic messages from my friend on what to do or not to do, but even though I knew exactly where he was and was overwhelmingly grateful for his presence, I felt isolated from him. Completely cut off and alone.
He was in his own space dealing with the he ordeal from his private perspective, and I hovered behind, seeing things he didn't see. As we approached the bank, we both saw a group of homeboys hanging out on the steps. Then I saw our three companions flash their guns at the boys and no one said a word. It was a secret signal, the staking out of a border and the designating of boundaries set around their little event, their little robbery. They were saying "Do not trespass" and "Do not covet our victims." Their guns spoke their message, the universal language of guns.
We entered the florescent white teller machine vestibule, the door shutting behind us. I wanted to go back outside. Somehow, being with guns out on the street seemed less threatening, less dangerous then being with a guns within a confined space. But the larger of the three hovered beside me and wouldn't let me go outside, even when I said he could go out with me. I wasn't trying to separate myself from my friend. I was just trying to breathe.
As the activity and frustration of unsuccessful banking transactions buzzed in one corner, I stood in another corner, talking to the big one with the big gun beside me. I told them that my friend was telling the truth - he didn't have any money and that I was the one with the money, but it was all at my friend's apartment. If we went back to his apartment, they could have all of my money, credit cards, checkbook, I told them, and I didn't care because I was leaving town soon.
The entire plan rolled off of my tongue like casual conversation at a cocktail party. Suddenly, my plan was the topic of conversation and questions rang out about logistics and whether I was trying to set them up or not. Set them up? I was just trying to get outside again so I could breathe.
We stepped outside into the cool, hushed early morning and began to walk again. We were more spread out from one another than before, each one of us trying to go a specific way, trying to make decisions as we walked, trying to assess the situation and the location of the others.
We headed down the dark, deserted street, and I knew I didn't want to go any further with our armed companions. As the distance grew between them and us, I noticed four guys behind us, walking our way. Somehow, my friend and I used the four guys to break the threads connecting our group, blocking the potential paths of bullets that could run along those threads.
"Go." my friend said as I paid close attention to my steps. I couldn't run yet. I knew I was still in their sights, potentially the moving target for their guns. If I ran, it might send ripples through the night and their trigger fingers might itch.
"Go." my friend said again more urgently and I felt my body tilt to an angle as I rounded the corner and took off into a smooth, streaming run. And I ran.