Oh, good. I breathe. He didn’t chain it. My eye is still on the door. He’s gonna snap again; I know it. John is bending, busy picking up the pieces of the spilled pipe parts, and I see it: my chance to run. I bolt for the door.
I make five or six long strides ahead of John out the door before he realizes I have actually broken free, but just as quickly he is up and running full force after me. I quickly scan the parking lot to see if there’s anyone or anywhere I can run to for safety. There isn’t. John is catching up to me, and I panic. The 7-Eleven! I race across traffic on Ventura Boulevard toward the green and red building on Tujunga and rush inside the double glass doors. Pushing frantically past a man and a woman at the entrance, I run to the back of the counter and jump behind the clerk at the cash register.
“Please, please, please,” I beg. “He’s gonna kill me. Help me, please. Help me!” I clutch his shirt at the waist and pull him in front of me. “He’s out there. He’s after me. Please help me.”
The clerk panics, nervously trying to turn to face me while I scoot around him, keeping him in front of me for safety. He sees my red, tearstained face and the fingernail welts on my arms and then scans down to see that I am wearing only a large nightshirt and black sandals. He nods, satisfied that I am really in danger, and spreads his arms out to block anyone who might come close to us.
“There he is!” the couple I crashed into yell out. “He’s standing by that car looking in!” The guy points to John’s figure slinking in the dark.
“Look! He’s hiding. He’s going behind the building!” The couple and the clerk have jumped in to the rescue.
“Call the police!” the woman shouts.
“No, don’t call the police!” I cry. Suddenly I’m afraid… of the police. They’ll arrest me. I’ll have to tell them about John and walking the streets, the drugs, and… oh God, no…. Eddie Nash. A flood of tears pours out of me. “Just take me to Glendale. Please! I have somewhere to go, but I only need a ride. Glendale. Can I get a ride to Glendale, please?”
The clerk raises his arms in the air helplessly. “I, I can’t leave the store,” he explains honestly. “I’d help you, but I can’t leave.”
“Oh God! He’s gonna kill me. I can’t go out there. Please!” John is still lurking, poking his head in and out of the shadows of the side of the store, waiting to jump me. I know it; I can feel his ominous presence nearby. But this time I have some protection: The clerk and the young couple know it too.
“Where in Glendale do you need to go?” the young man asks me, making a decision to help. His girlfriend locks eyes with him and nods. They are in their early twenties, sweet and clean-cut. They are also leery of me… and deep inside, I don’t blame them.
“We saw him running after you and then run to the side of the building. Where can we take you?” the woman adds.
“Glendale: 1012 East Acacia,” I recite my old address. “Thank you.”
The three of them—the clerk, man, and lady—form a barrier around me and walk me to the backseat of the couple’s Volkswagen Beetle parked out front. John is nowhere to be seen now, but I can still sense the danger, that invisible angry threat that wears his face and lurks right around the corner. Nervously, the young man starts the car and takes off. Something scurries behind a dirty gray pickup truck.
“There he is!” the lady yells.
The car backs out onto Ventura Boulevard and peels away.
I wipe my face—tears, mucus, and fear—on the bottom of my dirty, stained nightshirt, and I pray that Sharon will be home.
Tap, tap, tap. My frozen knuckles knock painfully on the cottage door. Tap, tap, tap. Shivering, I keep a continuous plea on the painted white wood. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. My knocking flows steadily with the rhythm of my cold, shaking bones. I haven’t seen Sharon for months—it seems longer—and I am horribly ashamed to face her again, especially like this.
The sweet couple with the Volkswagen has just let me off in front of the courtyard. I assure them I will be all right. “My friend Sharon is like a mom to me. She is always home,” I tell them. They look worried, but agree.
The street is empty; a soft buzzing noise hovers over the trees from the distant freeways. It must be after midnight. I feel the damp chill of the December fog soak through my skin and down to my bones. I pull my nightshirt to the front of my body, tightly clenching in as much body heat as I can with my arms, and crouch low on the dimly lit porch of my former home. Here I am, nineteen. Things aren’t supposed to be like this. John and I aren’t supposed to be like this, and Sharon, who is like family to me, is always supposed to be here. I will be twenty in exactly a week, and I’m not sure if I’ll make it. Dear God… let her answer the door, I pray over and over in sync with my chattering teeth.
I can hear the dogs prancing on the other side of the door. They know it’s me and don’t bark, only snort and sneeze and scratch in friendly anticipation. Thor. I wince. Thor’s with John. God, I hope he doesn’t hurt him.
I have to stop knocking. My hand is too cold. So cold it seems if I knock one more time the bones in my hand will shatter. A light flickers on at the neighbor’s cottage. Quickly, I duck. Oh shit! What am I doing? John’s right. Sharon doesn’t want me here. She’ll just call the police. Then what will I do? The light goes out. Oh my God! It’s so c, c, cold. My teeth begin to chatter harder, uncontrollably, as I stay on the porch curled in a ball, my knees tucked tight under my nightshirt and my chin. M, m, maybe I can find a warm spot to sleep here.
The cold air is too much—too thick and damp and chill. There is no place warm to escape the frozen first night of winter. My body is in pain. I thought extreme cold was painless, but it’s not and I’m finally forced to lift myself off the freezing concrete porch. I tap on the door one last time, using as much strength as I can muster. This time the dogs bark. I hear a rustling come from the bedroom. I knock hard and fierce, then listen.
The response is silence.
She doesn’t want me here, and I don’t blame her, I tell myself. John’s words of disgrace tear through my wounded self-esteem. God. What do I do? I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go back to John. I hunker down again. Now my legs won’t stop shaking back and forth, mechanical like a fifty-cent horse ride outside of the supermarket. They won’t hold still no matter how hard I try. God. I can’t stop shaking. I have to move, have to get warm. I have no choice. I have to go back to John.
Dejected and desperate to get out of the cold, I quietly step off of the porch and walk down Acacia to Glendale Avenue to stick my thumb out and hitch a ride back to John.
“Where you going?” the Hispanic man asks with a broad grin from behind the wheel of his early 1970s model cream-colored Chrysler.
“I, I think Ventura Boulevard.” My teeth still won’t stop chattering. “Near Laurel Canyon. My boyfriend and I have a room there, and I need to get back to him. He’s waiting for me and will be real worried.”
“Yeah, come on. Get in.” He gestures for me to hurry to keep the cold out. “I know where it is. Come on.”
I jump onto the front seat, keeping my arms across my chest. The driver has dark hair and an olive complexion and is dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt. He makes a clicking sound with his cheek, as if he’s annoyed. With a sideways glance he looks me up and down, but he says nothing about my attire. “What’s your name?”