The Man in Black

This is not supernatural creepy, but is one of the more disturbing and surreal experiences of my life.

One early morning a few short years ago, I am walking to my bus stop and eating a banana. It is dark, misty, (around 5am) and I am internally debating something trivial, like if I want my daily Starbucks before or after the commute.

As I approach the dimly lit corner on my street, a tall man in a black mask steps out of the dark alleyway to my left. Sleepy and disoriented, I barely acknowledge him. When he shouts "put down your fucking purse" and points his gun to my head, things start to click.

The man says "put down your bags," and I tell him, "okay, okay, I'm putting them down over here." He orders me to walk over to him (toward the alley) and "get down on the fucking ground" and I agree "I'm coming, okay, okay." My heart is beating a million miles a minute and my hands still smell sticky with banana. I know I need to get away.

I don't know why, but my mouth won't stop working: "Look, see, I'm on the ground. My stuff is over there. Please just take my stuff" But he doesn't like it. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, OKAY?!" He gets on top of me and puts the gun to my head.

At this point, I should mention the fact that I'm on my way to coach a high school practice and I'm dressed like a dude. Huge baggy pants, hat, jacket... If not for my tell-tale voice, I'd look like a prepubescent 90's rap star. Anyway, as the guy gets on top of me, gun to my head, he looks at me and pauses. I can't tell you why I know this, but I swear that at this moment, it clicks for him that I'm a woman. He gets off of me, stands up, and points to the dark alley. "Come with me."

My stomach hurts. I remember that there have been a recent rash of sexual assaults in my neighborhood (during the day time no less). When the man points down that dirty alleyway, my internal voice speaks the fuck up. Says voice #1: "There was no way in HELL you are going to go down there without a fight." "But he has a gun, you dipshit" replies voice #2. "FUCKING FOLLOW ME!" the real voice, his voice, hollers.

So I do what I do best: I talk. "I'm coming, I'm following you!" I call. And the man makes a crucial mistake -- he believes me. I take one, two tiny steps backwards, toward the sidewalk. And he turns his body -- and his gun -- toward the alley. This is my moment! I take a deep breath, tuck my head down in case he starts shooting, and start SPRINTING away. I hear a voice screaming in a high pitch wail before I realize that it's mine. After running 6 or 7 blocks, I head back to my apartment, hoping he's not there to see where I lived.

The police check out the alleyway an hour later, but the potential-attacker is long gone. The only evidence of the encounter is my banana peel browning in the alleyway and the adrenaline rush that I couldn't shake for days. I would be lying if I said that if that experience doesn't bother me still... but I'm so fortunate to mainly be haunted by the "what-ifs" and not the "what-dids".