Depending on how you’re looking at things . . .
I am either the luckiest person alive or the unluckiest.
I’ve said before that my life is just a series of crises, and here’s more proof.
Let’s ignore the car wrecks for a minute.
Or the random things that happen to me.
And let’s focus on today:
The day started off extremely well.
Up and at ‘em by 4:45.
Shower, dress, gather materials for work.
Got to talk on the phone to the sweetest man on the planet.
45 minute commute seemed to take no time at all.
Pirated internet connection at the daycare worked - so I got to blog and catch up on some of my favorite blogs while I was waiting on my therapy kids to complete certain tasks.
All wonderful things!
I drive to my next center.
Again, great experience.
He is my autistic child and he was having a wonderful day.
Talkative - for him - and on target with his goals.
So, I’m really upbeat when I go out to my truck to drive to the third center of the day.
The third center is one of my favorites.
I have 5 therapy kids there and the staff are AMAZINGLY good with the kids.
Also, and this is crazy and I know it, but it’s in a church and always makes me feel safe.
The parking lot is on the side of the church with no windows.
The door is about 25 yards from the nearest parking spot.
But it’s the middle of the morning.
Yes, it’s a bad neighborhood.
Technically, it’s the ghetto.
The Kroger down the street is where three murders have occurred.
But they were all at night.
And I’m ALWAYS out of the area before dark.
Do you see where this is going?
I’m aware of my surroundings.
I see no one.
So I do what I always do.
I open the truck door, get out and then lean over the seat to pull my briefcase with my laptop and files out of the passenger seat.
That’s when I feel someone behind me.
Enter The Crackhead.
We’re going to call him The Crackhead because that’s what he looked like.
And that’s what the police guess he was.
The Crackhead demanded I give him all my cash.
I, quite honestly, told him I don’t have any cash.
I didn’t. And I don’t. I don’t carry cash anywhere near that neighborhood.
Because of all the homeless people that are constantly approaching me for money.
I carry my driver’s license and ONE credit card.
Just in case.
Well, he didn’t like my answer . . .
So he showed me his knife and pushed the point of it into my side.
And again demanded my money.
I, as calmly as possible through tears, told him again that I didn’t have any money.
So he reached over me, popped my console and took the MAYBE four dollars in change that was in there.
He’s obviously not the smartest thief.
He could have taken anything.
The SUV, the laptop, the cell phone in my hand . . . .
All he took was the four dollars in nickels, pennies and dimes.
And any sense of safety I had.
After I regain my balance and stop shaking and crying, I run to the center doors and ring the bell.
We call the police, I text-mail the sweetest man in the world and I let myself cry for a few minutes until the police get there.
The police tell me that it’s highly unlikely that they will catch him.
That he was probably just a drug addict looking for money for a fix.
That I should count myself very lucky that all he took was the change.
That I should feel even luckier that I wasn’t hurt.
And that I should be proud of myself for doing the right thing:
Not reacting, not fighting, just let him take what he wants and go.
I call my mom.
Because that’s what you do when you’re scared out of your mind.
Mom tells me, and I quote: “I’ve been waiting on this to happen! You work in the ghetto! What did you expect to happen??”
That’s how mom reacts.
Horror first, anger first. Then caring.
“Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you did he? Oh, Brittany, you have to get another job. I can’t take this worrying about you all the time.”
I call Birdie.
Who handles things like I do.
“He knifed you for four dollars?? That’s great.”
So I laugh a little.
My father calls.
Poster boy for the NRA.
“We gotta get you a gun. You shoulda shot that sucker in the face. That happens to these assholes a coupla times and people will stop robbing people.”
“Ummm, dad, isn’t it more likely that he would just take the gun from me and kill me.”
But I had to laugh . . . probably because of the shock.
And I’ve been laughing ever since.
I’m sure it will hit me around 2 AM that I could have died.
For four dollars.
And I will start crying again.
But for now . . . I am laughing.
It’s like nothing happened.
I’m still at work, still playing with my kids - - though I’ve noticed I want them in my lap instead of in their PlaySkool chair and table where we normally do our work, still laughing at everything.
I call the sweetest man in the world again.
He concurs that I’m probably in shock.
He recommends I go home or to a friend’s or down to my parents.
But it doesn’t make much sense.
I’m not hurt. I haven’t even really lost anything.
So . . . . I keep on working.
And I'm probably driving him crazy with calls and textmails.
One crisis after another.
This is my life.
Sorry this is so discombobulated, I'm still a little out of it.