The Alleyway

One early morning a few years ago, I was walking to my bus stop, eating a banana. It was dark and misty—around 5 a.m. I was internally debating something trivial, like whether I wanted my daily Starbucks before or after my commute.

As I approached the dimly lit corner on my street, a tall man in a black mask stepped out of a dark alleyway to my left. Sleepy and disoriented, I barely acknowledged him. When he shouted “put down your fucking purse!” and pointed a gun at my head, things started to click.

He said, “Put down your bags.” I told him, “Okay, okay, I’m putting them down over here.” He ordered me to walk toward him and “get down on the fucking ground.” I agreed, “I’m coming, okay, okay.” My heart was beating a million miles a minute, and my hands still smelled sticky from the banana. I knew I needed to get away.

I don’t know why, but my mouth wouldn’t stop working. “Look, see, I’m on the ground. My stuff is over there. Please, just take my stuff.” But he didn’t like it. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, OKAY?!” He got on top of me and pressed the gun to my head.

At this point, I should mention that I was on my way to coach a high school practice, and I was dressed like a dude: huge baggy pants, a hat, a jacket... If not for my tell-tale voice, I’d have looked like a prepubescent 90s rap star. Anyway, as the guy got on top of me, gun to my head, he looked at me and paused. I can’t tell you why I know this, but I swear that in that moment, it clicked for him that I was a woman. He got off of me, stood up, and pointed into the dark alley. “Come with me.”

My stomach hurt. I remembered the recent rash of sexual assaults in my neighborhood. When the man pointed down that dirty alleyway, my internal voice spoke the fuck up.

Voice #1 said: “There is no way in HELL you are going down there without a fight.”

“But he has a gun, you dipshit,” replied Voice #2.

“FUCKING FOLLOW ME!” the real voice—his voice—hollered.

So I did what I do best: I talked. “I’m coming, I’m following you!” I called. And the man made a crucial mistake—he believed me. I took one, then two tiny steps backward, toward the sidewalk. He turned his body—and his gun—toward the alley.

This was my moment.

I took a deep breath, tucked my head down in case he started shooting, and sprinted. I heard a voice screaming in a high-pitched wail before I realized it was mine. After running six or seven blocks, I headed back to my apartment, praying he wasn’t watching to see where I lived.

The police checked the alleyway an hour later, but the potential attacker was long gone. The only evidence of the encounter was my banana peel browning in the alley and the adrenaline rush I couldn’t shake for days.

I would be lying if I said that experience doesn’t still bother me... but I’m so fortunate to be haunted mainly by the “what-ifs” and not the “what-dids.”