By B. P. Gibson
I was sitting there in the middle of the day watching Nancy Grace on television like I always do when suddenly there was a boom, boom, boom at my front door. I frequently misplace my iPhone, and when I do, I ask myself what I would do if I had an emergency. I always tell myself that I would run to a neighbor’s house if I had an emergency and couldn’t find my phone. So, when I heard the boom, boom, boom at my door, I thought it must be one of the neighbors who misplaced their phone and had an emergency. So I hurried to the door. Just before I reached for the doorknob, a gut feeling stopped me. I decided I needed to look through the peephole before doing anything.
When I looked out the peephole, I saw a man I didn’t recognize. He wasn’t the weird guy who was renting the house next door. He wasn’t the nice EMT guy who lived next door to me on the other side for years. He wasn’t the overweight guy whose Ring doorbell was stolen right off the wall and whose kid left her cell phone in the street. He certainly wasn’t the nice lady who just moved in across the street or the young couple who also lived across the street. He wasn’t the couple with the preschooler that lived next to the weird guy. I didn’t know who he was, and he looked angry. As I looked out the peephole, wondering if I should open the door, the man pulled out a gun from his waist and aimed it at the door lock. I panicked!
I have a fear of guns. I’ve always had a fear of guns. My philosophy is that the only good gun is a squirt gun or a water pistol. There’s nothing like being a kid on a hot summer’s day with a group of other kids with everyone packing a water pistol. Such great fun and no one gets hurt. At any rate, I just wanted to get as far away as I could from the angry man with the gun. I ran to the other side of the house, but then I realized my dilemma. I was in the kitchen, and there was no way out except through the patio door.
That was the problem. For one, the patio door screen was closed and had been giving me problems opening it. I had to work at it and jiggle it back and forth if I wanted to slide it open, and there just wasn’t time for that. Besides, if I got the screen door open, I still had to open the security door, which had a bolt lock that stuck. I had to insert the key and pull the door toward me while I turned the key if I wanted to open that door. What’s more, I didn’t know exactly where the key was at that moment. If I managed to get out the patio door into the backyard, there was no place to go and no place to hide. There were no bushes to hide behind, no trees with wide trunks, nothing. Except for a small patch of grass, there were just brick pavers on the ground and flowerbeds along the yard’s edges. To make matters worse, the backyard gate was locked, and the key to that lock was in another room.
I was trying to figure out what to do while I heard the loud bangs of the gun as the man shot at the door locks. He had to shoot through two bolt locks and one regular lock to get inside the house, but time was quickly up.
The shooting stopped, and I heard the man enter. I knew I was in trouble. I glanced around the kitchen for something, anything I could use to protect myself. The iron skillet caught my eye. I remembered the movie Tangled. Rapunzel bopped her intruder over the head, knocking him out cold when he scaled her tower and climbed through her window. I decided right then and there, that I would whack my intruder over the head with the iron skillet and knock him out cold, just like Rapunzel. I figured I could kick his gun somewhere out of sight and out of reach once he was unconscious ― maybe under the stove. That was a plan Nancy Grace would call premeditated despite taking only a second or two to think of it. It was a plan, a predetermined course of action.
I quietly picked up the heavy iron skillet from the stove. I knew the man would have to go through the living room before reaching the kitchen. A wall divided the living room and kitchen, but it was more than a wall. It was a wall on the living room side, but behind that wall was a pantry, a refrigerator, and a counter with cabinets. On one side of the pantry, there was an open area from the living room into the dining area and kitchen. I knew he would walk right through there to get to the kitchen. I stood silently next to the pantry with my heart racing. Adrenalin churned through my veins while I raised the iron skillet above my head, ready to wallop the man as soon as he was within reach.
I saw the muzzle of the gun first. Once the man was in view, I whacked that skillet down on his head with all the force and strength I could muster. Wham! He didn’t collapse. Okay, so Tangled was a cartoon movie, and Rapunzel’s intruder was a cartoon character, so I guess that’s why the cartoon guy went down a lot easier than the real flesh and blood guy. You know how they say an animal is more dangerous after he’s injured. Well, that man looked angry before I clocked him with my iron skillet, but he looked downright furious afterward, and there we were face to face.
He raised his gun to fire at me. Instinctively I raised the skillet as a shield, which wasn’t premeditated but more of a knee-jerk reaction. Bang! Ping! Bang, ping! The bullets ricocheted off the iron skillet. It was as though he didn’t notice or didn’t care that I was holding the iron skillet as a shield. He probably wasn’t in his right mind. Okay, it’s needless to say, that man was not in his right mind. He kept shooting one shot at a time. Bang, ping! Bang, ping!
I thought, This is how I’m going to die! Then I sent up a little help prayer. To be honest, most of my prayers are help prayers. Help, I can’t find my phone! Help, I think my eighteen-year-old dog is dead! Oh wait, he’s still breathing, and so on, but this time was a real emergency. Lord God, please help! Don’t let me die this way! All the while, the man kept shooting, but right after that little help prayer, there was only one more shot. Bang, ping! The anger on that man’s face suddenly turned to a look of horror while pulsating spurts of blood shot from his chest.
“Oh, shhhhhh,” the man said as he sank to the floor. I thought he was going to say the four-letter “sh” word, but he only got out the beginning consonant blend that sounded like the air deflating from him as he collapsed onto the floor. He lay there motionless. His color drained, while his eyes were wide open, staring straight forward. The pulsating spurts of blood stopped, but he was still holding the gun. I considered the possibility that his heart was still beating. I thought maybe the pulsating blood spurts were still going on inside his body, just not shooting out of him. He lay there on the floor, motionless, grey, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
I’ve seen two other scenarios where the perpetrator appears dead while the lady he was attacking apparently prevailed as the survivor. Both times I was channel surfing when I came upon that scene. One was an episode of a detective series, and the other was a movie. Both times the lady was young and attractive with a full head of gorgeous hair, not old, ugly, fat, and balding like me. In both scenarios, the young lady reached down toward the apparently dead man, one to check his pulse, the other to reach for his weapon. Both times, when the young lady reached down toward him, he became instantly conscious and grabbed the lady’s wrist. Then they broke for commercial, both times, really. Remembering those scenarios made me fearful, scared out of my wits that the man may still come back to life. At that moment, I just wanted to get away from him.
I had the choice of two possible ways out of the kitchen. I could go out the patio door if I could find the key, but then I would be trapped in my backyard and unable to escape. My other option was to just go past the man lying there with the gun in his hand by stepping over him. Part of me was sure he would wake up and shoot me. The other part of me reasoned that he really looked dead. After all, he had turned a purplish-grey. I decided there was no real escape except to step over him. I gathered my courage and quickly but gingerly stepped over his legs, praying he would not come to life, trip me, and shoot me. Once I was out of the kitchen, I grabbed my phone and ran as fast as I could out the front door, down the street to the corner, turned, and ran down that street until I came to the next street. Most of the houses in my neighborhood have air conditioning units in their backyards. A few have the air conditioning units on the side of the house in front, surrounded by a small wall to hide the air conditioning unit from the street. I saw one of those little walls surrounding an air conditioning unit on the side of a house. Out of breath, I ran to it, hid behind that little wall and air conditioning unit, slinking down to the ground with my back resting against the house. I heaved in a deep breath, then unexpectedly surprised myself when suddenly I burst into hysterical sobbing. I tried to catch my breath and calm myself. Then I called 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” the calm, matter-of-fact voice asked.
“I…th…think I k…kil…killed someone,” I managed to say between sobs. I don’t remember all the questions the 911 operator asked, but I do remember saying things like, “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I didn’t mean for him to die. He may still be alive, I don’t know.” Then she asked for my location and what happened that led to the incident. She asked for the man’s location. I answered her questions as best I could and explained how it all happened. I was still hiding behind the little wall surrounding the air conditioning unit when I heard footsteps.
“He’s coming after me! I can hear his footsteps! He’s going to shoot me!” I frantically whispered to the 911 operator as I curled up in a fetal position. I ducked my head between my knees and covered my head with my arms in a desperate attempt to protect myself from what I knew would be a fatal shot.
“No, he’s not coming after you. That’s one of our officers,” the 911 operator tried to assure me. I heard the crackle of a police radio, looked up, and saw a policeman standing in front of me.
“Are you going to arrest me?” I asked. I knew there were a lot of innocent people who got arrested for a lot less than killing someone.
“That depends. First, give me that,” the police officer said.
“Give you what?” I asked.
“That frying pan.” There was a moment of confusion in my mind then I realized I was still holding the iron skillet.
“You mean the skillet?” I asked.
“Yes, hand it over,” he said.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why not?”
The truth is, I never wear a bra when I am hanging around the house ― no pun intended. Bras can be very uncomfortable. Furthermore, I never go out of the house braless, ever. Okay, once in a blue moon, I’ll sometimes sneak out late at night when I need to turn off the irrigation water spigot. On those rare occasions, I keep my arms folded in front of me (even though I’m otherwise fully dressed, including a tee-shirt) and step out just long enough to reach the spigot about ten feet from the front door. There have also been a few occasions I needed to roll the trash bin out to the street, again late at night, when I wore a sweatshirt so no one would know I was braless. Other than that, I don’t go outside without wearing a bra, especially in broad daylight. With the police officer standing over me, the only thing I had to hide my braless condition was that iron skillet. Okay, I did have on a tee-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, but I still needed to cover up. So, there I was with only a skillet to hide my braless condition.
“I don’t have a bra on,” I admitted. Maybe that came out wrong. It sounded like I was trying to hit on the police officer, which, believe me, flirting with him was the farthest thing from my mind.
“What does that have to do with it? Hand over the skillet,” he said with a firm and irritated tone. Not to sound sexist or anything, but men just don’t understand sometimes, and this guy was no exception.
“Okay,” I said and crossed my arms across my chest with the skillet in one hand, “Please take it.” He took the skillet but seemed annoyed.
“Get up!”
Here was the problem. I couldn’t get up with my arms folded in front of my chest, but I didn’t want to aggravate the officer more than I already had. I scooted around so my back was to him, got up, folded my arms in front of my chest, and turned to face the policeman. All the while, I hoped and prayed he wouldn’t handcuff me, which would totally expose my braless condition.
“Did someone go and check on the man?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “Come with me.”
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked as I followed the police officer to his vehicle.
“Get in,” the policeman said as he held open the door to the backseat of his patrol car. I got in. He closed the door, went around the car, and sat down behind the wheel.
“Is he going to be okay?” I repeated my question, knowing deep down the man wasn’t going to be okay but hoping he would survive.
“Darlin, he’s as dead as a doorknob,” the police officer answered. I let out an involuntary shutter-sob.
“Are you going to arrest me?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure Nancy Grace would say it was definitely a case of self-defense.
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
So, I told him. I told him how I was watching Nancy Grace. I told him about the boom, boom, boom on the door. I told him I thought it was a neighbor with an emergency and no phone. I told him how I ran as far away from the man when I saw he had a gun and how I should have run to the garage, which was closer and would have given me a place to hide and a way to escape. I told him how troublesome and time-consuming it was to open the kitchen’s patio door. I told him if I had made my way to the backyard, I would have been trapped with no way out and nowhere to hide. I told him about the movie Tangled and how Rapunzel used an iron skillet just like mine. Except my skillet has parallel raised ridges that allow the drippings to stay off the food being cooked and leave nice grill marks on the food. I told him how Rapunzel whacked her skillet over the head of the guy who scaled her tower and climbed in her bedroom window after stealing the crown jewels. He stopped me there.
“Let me get this straight. You thought hitting an armed man with a gun over the head with a frying pan that worked on knocking out a cartoon character would get the same results on a real person?”
“So, you’ve seen the movie?” I asked when I realized he knew I was talking about a cartoon movie, then I continued my explanation, “It was all I had. I was stuck in the kitchen. I didn’t think of anything else. I guess I could have grabbed a knife, but I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted to knock him unconscious and get as far away from him as possible,” I explained.
“Then what happened?”
“I hid on the other side of the living room/kitchen wall, in front of the pantry, and waited. Just as the man got within reach, I whacked him over the head as hard as I could, but that only made him angry…”
“I wonder why? Go on.”
“So, he was really mad and started shooting, but I held up the skillet like a shield, and the shots and bullets went ‘Bang, ping’ over and over again, and I silently prayed, ‘Oh dear God, am I going to die like this? Please don’t let me die like this!’ That’s when there was one more ‘Bang! Ping!’ The man’s looks changed from furious anger to horrified realization while blood started spurting, pulsating from his chest, and he said, ‘Oh, shhhhhhhh,’ and tumbled to the floor. I think he was trying to say the “sh” word, but he could only get out the beginning consonant blend, and it sounded like air coming out of a tire or something. That’s when he fell to the floor and turned gray, and the blood stopped spurting from his chest, but his eyes were still open, staring straight forward, and the gun was still in his hand, and I was afraid he’d wake up and come after me and shoot me, so I ran.”
“Nobody’s going to believe this,” the police officer said.
“Do you believe me? Are you going to arrest me?”
“Sweetheart, take a look at this and tell me what you think,” he said and held up the skillet.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Look closer. What do you see?” I looked closer at the iron skillet through the grid cage material that separated the patrol car’s back seat from the front seat.
“My skillet is ruined!” I moaned.
“Jesus! Do I have to spell it out for you? Why is your frying pan ruined?”
“It has dent marks all across the bottom! It’s ruined!” I couldn’t believe my skillet was damaged beyond repair. I loved that skillet and used it all the time.
“And what made those dent marks?”
“The bullets ricocheting off the skillet, I guess.”
“Right.”
“So, are you going to arrest me?”
“Jesus, lady! I’m not going to arrest you if your story checks out. Look at the dent marks in the bottom of the frying pan, and tell me does your story check out?”
“Oh, I get it,” I told him, relieved that I knew I was off the hook, “The ping marks show that the bullets did indeed ricochet off the skillet and prove that I am telling the truth.”
“Finally,” the police officer said.
“Well, you don’t have to be so degrading,” I said, gasping another sob, “Can I get back into my house now?”
“Not for a while. You’ll probably need to spend the night at a friend’s or in a hospital. Do you need to go to the hospital? Do you need an EMT or medical attention?” he asked.
“No. I don’t think so, but I think I’m going to cry some more now.”
“Jesus!”
“Can I at least go in the house just to grab some things?”
“Nope.”
“What about my dog?” I asked.
“Your dog? You’ve got a dog in the house?”
“Yes, but…”
“Hold on,” the officer said as he grabbed his mike. “Tell them there’s a dog in there,” I heard him say into his radio. He turned to me, “Does he bite?”
“No. He’s blind and deaf and really old. He sleeps all the time and probably slept through the whole thing. He’s probably still asleep in his bed in my bedroom.”
He spoke into his radio mike, “The dog is probably in the bedroom. He’s old, can’t see, can’t hear. Ten-four.” He turned to me and said, “We’ll bring your dog out to you.”
“Well, can someone get my purse, and could they please grab one of my bras?”
“Jesus, lady!”
A few days later, I found out the man was actually after the weird guy next door. I guess he had the wrong address. When the police investigated, they discovered a boatload of drugs in the weird guy’s house. They also found weapons and a lot of cash. The police didn’t arrest me, but I got an attorney just in case. The attorney told me not to worry. Then he said if they did arrest me, not to say anything and give him a call immediately. That made me wonder if he really thought I didn’t need to worry. I returned from the attorney appointment, sat down in my favorite chair, and turned on the television. I was watching Nancy Grace when there was a knock at my door. This time I ran straight to the garage and hid. Then I thought I was being silly and asked myself if I planned to hide in the garage whenever someone knocked on my door. I looked out one of the little windows on the garage door and saw a local news van parked in front of my house. I decided to continue hiding.