Poker Face

I was at a friend's house, safe in warm suburbia. We were drinking and chatting, but I had too much to drink. My friend had an abrupt bedtime, so I left early, still intoxicated. I felt too embarrassed to ask to sleep at his house, so I decided to wait in my car until I was sober enough to drive.

The car was parked along a quiet residential street. Because the neighborhood was dark, strange, and unfamiliar, I used newspapers and a sweater in the back seat to cover myself. I wanted to camouflage myself rather than be an obvious person sitting in a car.

I could not fall asleep. The uncomfortable back seat and the darkness made everything feel ominous. My mind began imagining worst-case scenarios, like police shining lights through the window or a drunk driver hitting the car.

Then I heard footsteps approaching in the distance. Gravel scuffed with each step, and the person periodically stopped. I wondered if someone was looking through cars with the intention of stealing one. I counted several full stops until the person reached my window and began breathing.

I froze.

There was no more than a foot between us. The car enclosed me as I lay hidden beneath the clutter in the back seat, trying to become an object and remain unnoticed.

“I seeeeeeeeee youuuuuuuu,” said a man in perverse baby talk.

He sounded as if he were baiting me to move, questioning whether the clutter was really just clutter or a person. I did not look at the window. My eyes fixed on the back of the passenger seat. I barely breathed, and my heart pounded so hard it shook my body.

He circled the car. I heard his steps and felt the trunk being pressed down, as if he were testing the alarm or testing me. I was caught between fight and flight, unable to do either without increasing the danger.

He circled the car again. The door handle beside me jiggled repeatedly.

“I seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee youuuuuuuu,” he said in the same tone, now more agitated and convinced that the clutter would move.

Then came three taps against the glass. I imagined a crowbar, a knife, a rock, or a gun. I could not see him, but I felt his eyes resting on me.

“My name is Poker Face. What’s your name?”

His voice changed to a lower, demented, serious tone. My mind forced a terrible image into the darkness. I had already accepted that I might die. I imagined my friend discovering my body beside the car the next morning.

Then I heard nothing but my own heartbeat. The footsteps gradually disappeared. I waited until daylight began to show, then moved to the front seat and drove away, wide-eyed and sober.