Vondarrien

*Inspired by Esquire magazine’s old “What It Feels Like…” features. This is a rewrite of a post I wrote several years ago.

 

A strange fellow approached me as I returned to my car late one night.

Who the hell wears a jacket in 80-degree weather? In the middle of summer?
Apparently that guy.

Weirdo.

As he got within speaking distance, he asked if I had the time.

I looked down at my cell.
It was late. 3 AM.
An extremely disappointing night had finally reached its conclusion.
Or so I thought.

When I looked up—I found myself staring down the barrel of a pistol.
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Random fact: I was once a bartender.

Almost 10 years ago. I tended bar for a hole-in-the-wall club in Chicago’s western ‘burbs.

For some inexplicable reason, I thought it’d be a good idea to wear a sleeveless, ripped denim vest to work one evening. Obviously, this was the apex of my meathead days, when I (mistakenly) thought dressing this way was a good look (it wasn’t). Ah, the follies of youth.

As fate would have it, it was a slow night at the club. Therefore, management allowed some of us to depart early.

However, I wasn’t ready for my night to end.
On a whim, I decided to hit a late-night club in the city. Alone. To have a drink and meet some ladies.

My first destination was a Wicker Park lounge. Paje.
The lady at the door took one look at my Larry the Cable Guy outfit and all but said, “You ain’t gettin’ in here lookin’ like THAT, homie.”

Still not content, I drove to yet another nightclub. The Biology Bar.
It was located in a busy club/bar district on the near north side of the city.
The area was packed! So much so that there wasn’t a parking spot nearby; the nearest one was four blocks away.

At the door, they informed me of an outrageous $25 cover.
It was too late to turn back; I begrudgingly paid and headed inside.

Unfortunately, it was a bad idea.
The music sucked. I didn’t meet any women (I was shocked that the ladies didn’t like my outfit. SHOCKED!). Also, few experiences are more awkward than going clubbing alone.

I left after less than 45 minutes—disappointed that I wasted $25 and didn’t have fun.

There was ample time to reflect on my disappointing night during the long trek back to my vehicle.
Safe to say: next time I’d just go home.

 

My thoughts were interrupted when, a few feet from my car, I was approached by a guy in a jacket who asked if I had the time.
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Hindsight is 20/20.

How could I have been so stupid?
The jacket on a hot summer night should’ve been a dead giveaway. He asked for the time to divert my attention from him drawing his pistol from said jacket.

Since I had parked so far away—no one else was around.
No passing cars. No pedestrians.

Just him. And me.

He wasn’t big though. Nor intimidating.
Instead, he was short. Dumpy.
I towered over him.

However, none of that mattered.
‘Cause he had the great equalizer: The heat.

Dude was clear: he wanted my keys and wallet. Immediately.

He stood two feet away—with the gat pointed directly at my chest.

 

Everything happened so fast.
Given time to think rationally, I’d have simply given him what he wanted.
However, emotion trumped logic at that particular moment.

So, let me get this straight: after the night I’d just had, I was supposed to give my valuables to that prick? How dare he? He’d have to pry them from my cold, dead hands before I surrendered them willingly.

 

I rushed him.

My desire was to take all of my frustrations from that night out on him.
Fucking asshole.
Although, there was the little matter of separating him from the gun first. To avoid getting blasted in the face and all.

I focused on disarming him by grabbing his arm (the one with the gun) with both hands.
We struggled for what seemed like an eternity.
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the gun out of his hand.
He twisted and contorted himself like a worm so that I couldn’t.

 

Next thing I know: we were back to square one.
With him holding the heat on me and asking for my keys and wallet yet again.

Only this time, dude had a puzzled expression. His look all but said, “I can’t believe you just did that.”
He’d also learned from his previous blunder; dude stood farther away so I couldn’t rush him and catch him off guard. He glanced over at a guy standing on the opposite corner. Sadly, it wasn’t someone coming to help. They were in cahoots; it was a two-man operation.

At that point, I knew I was a goner—whether I acquiesced or not.

 

I turned and sprinted toward the alley behind me, sure that I’d hear his gun discharge and feel a bullet go right into my spine.

But it didn’t happen.
And thankfully, his partner wasn’t waiting for me on the other side of the alley.

I gained my composure enough to call 9-1-1.

They arrived shortly thereafter. Upon being told what happened, they shared that this sort of thing happened often in the area. Apparently, many a person had been robbed in a similar manner. But I was the first one who fought back.

After offering a description, they scoured the area looking for them. Said they’d call me to ID him at the station if they caught him.

Sadly, I never received that call.

 

Almost 10 years later, I still often reflect on the events of that night.

Was I courageous?
Lucky?
Irrational?
Incredibly stupid?
Blind to common fashion sense (seriously, a sleeveless denim vest?)?

Is it possible to be all of those things simultaneously?

The important thing is that I’m alive to tell the story.

That’s gotta count for something.