Von

My boss approached my desk one afternoon.

“Von, you got a minute?”

I was working on a story for our magazine, but could spare a few minutes to holla at dude.

It was 2001.
I was a 24-year-old writing for a local Internet start-up—a sports media company.
My assignment was to cover local sports for our website and local publication.
It was my first real post-college job.

At the time, sports and writing were my passions in life; it was a blessing to find a job involving both.

I followed him to his office—figuring we’d probably go over some story ideas.
Like usual. Nothin’ too important.

I entered his office to find that the HR manager was already in there. This is odd, I thought, as I took a seat.

 

Soon it was apparent they didn’t want to talk about story ideas.
Or my performance. Or anything else I was thinking of.

 

Instead, my worst fear was realized.

I was being fired.
Or “laid off,” as my boss and HR manager put it (apparently, you can’t fire someone without a human resources representative present). Along with a few others in the office. They said it wasn’t performance related. Just a mater of budget cuts. Lack of funding. Blah, blah, blah.

The Price Is Right loser’s horn played in the background.

I was devastated.

DEVASTATED!

My job was my passion. My livelihood.

Now it was being taken away in the blink of an eye.

Why? Why me? Why now?
What’d I do to deserve this horrible fate?
I felt a lump in my throat. Probably my pride and dignity going south.

I bowed my head in shame while being informed of my unfortunate demise. I finally looked up at my boss—he was crying. Not “boo-hoo” crying, but tears were streaming down his face. His eyes were red. His voice cracked. He did not sign up for this. Dude didn’t sign up to FIRE anyone. Especially the youngest writer on his staff.

He was taking it a lot harder than I was. And I was the one gettin’ axed.

Uh, awkward.

Dude pulled himself together enough to cover the final details.
Severance pay (I only got 2 weeks). Unused vacation days.
A healthcare extension from an organization called COBRA (dog, I don’t want Destro and the Baroness handling my co-pay).
They said I had to sign something. And I did, like an idiot, without reading it first.

I zoned out after a few minutes listening to my boss—he started to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher (wah-wah-wahwahwahwah).

I got to thinking:

What would I tell my friends? Family?

What would I do for money? How would I pay the note on my brand new SUV?

What would I do at home all day?

I focused in again in time to hear him say it was a pleasure working with me.
And he’d be glad to give me a recommendation in the future.

And with that, he got up, eyes still red, and shook my hand.

They escorted me to my desk to pick up my belongings. I looked around—no one was at his/her desk. It was a ghost town. Like they all just magically disappeared. I found out later that they pulled everyone who wasn’t being fired into the conference room until I left.

After gathering my stuff, the kind gentleman accompanied me on my walk of shame out of the building.

I passed the receptionist on my way out. A cute and perky young lady. Always upbeat and smiling.

“See you tomorrow, Von.”

I just nodded and kept going. Never to return.

 

It’s not like I didn’t know the roads were gonna be icy the day after Christmas.

Our weeklong snowstorm was followed by a day of heavy rain.
And as we all know: snow + rain = ice.

Plus, I almost slipped and busted my ass a couple times while going to warm up my car that morning.

So, one would think that I’d be sure to be extra careful while driving to the gym for my morning workout.

But, sadly, that wasn’t the case.

En route, I found myself behind two buses on a two-lane street. Both were going really slow—as well they should’ve been, considering the icy conditions. Hell, I should’ve been taking my time too.

But I couldn’t help myself. I’m too damn impatient.

The slow pace was driving me the hell crazy. The last thing I wanted was to be trapped behind those buses for an extended period of time—even though I really wasn’t in a hurry (it ain’t like the gym was goin’ nowhere).

On a whim, I decided to attempt some daredevil, NASCAR-type shyt.

1) I’d switch to the right lane.
2) Accelerate past the first bus.
3) Switch back to the left lane, knifing through the small crack between both buses.
4) And pass the other bus.

No problem, right?

I achieved Step 1 easily enough.
While accelerating, I noticed myself headed toward a small patch of black ice. It was too late to swerve and avoid it.

I instantly lost control of the vehicle; my car began to spin out.

Had I been thinking clearly, I’d have remembered what I was taught to do back in driving school: pump the brakes.

Slamming ’em does no good while sliding on ice.

 

But in the panic of my current predicament, I could only think to put my foot through the brakes as forcefully as possible. Unfortunately, it made the car spin even more wildly out of control.

I grabbed the wheel with both hands—desperately attempting to steer back on course before something horrible happened as a result of my carelessness.

So how does it feel to be in a car spinning toward impending doom?

Imagine how a pair of shoes bangs around in an empty dryer.

My head thumped back and forth against the seat.
My protein shake flew from the cup holder and spilled over the dashboard.
Everything on the seats flew off.

It’s a completely helpless feeling, really.

At that point, nothing I attempted would correct the situation. It was just a matter of waiting to see how bad the damage would be.

Would my car be totaled?
Would I flip over?
Was there a car behind me? If so, would it ram into me?
Would I be critically injured?

Two thoughts crossed my mind:

A) I’m an idiot. B) I’m a goner.

I spun out for what felt like an eternity—almost flipping over a couple times. Finally, I hit the curb and jumped it. My car would’ve definitely flipped had there not been a huge block of snow to cushion my crash. When the smoke cleared and dust settled, I found myself looking at the road with my car crashed backward into a snow bank.

While getting out of my car I noticed a cop car speeding toward me. He arrived and quickly assessed the situation.

After briefly talking with the cop, he decided that since I was OK and there was no major damage, I was free to go. Guess he didn’t feel like filling out any paperwork. Neither did I. And with that, he blocked traffic so I could drive off the curb and continue to the gym.

 

Sadly, I didn’t learn my lesson, as I found myself speeding through an intense rainstorm on a crowded highway later that night.

I’m probably gonna die a horrible death one day.

Sometimes Esquire magazine runs a feature called “What It Feels Like…”

It’s about people who experience abnormal stuff.
Like the lady explaining what it feels like to need sex all the time. Or another story about being mauled by a bear; another about being beaten by a mob. And a former inmate told the disturbing story of being a prison sex slave.

Really riveting stuff.

Got me to thinking about any crazy stuff that’s ever happened to me that I could share…

 

*********

I noticed a strange fellow walking toward me as I walked back to my car.

From 20 feet away.

He was wearing a jacket-even though it was the middle of summer.
I had on a sleeveless shirt. Why the jacket?

As the guy got closer, maybe 10 feet away, he asked me what time it was.

I looked down at my cell. It was late. 3 in the morning.
When I looked up, I found myself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

____________________________________________________________

Back in my early 20s (2002 or so) I bartended for a club in Chicago’s western suburbs.

One late-summer night, I wore a sleeveless, ripped denim-type shirt to work (yup, I was a meathead). Kinda like the shirts mechanics wear. I looked like a black Larry the Cable Guy.

As it turns out, they let a few of us bartenders leave early ’cause the club wasn’t busy that night.

But I wasn’t for my night to end.

I decided to hit a late-night club in the city. Alone (this was during the time when I had no problem going out by myself)I wanted to have a drink and meet some ladies.

I went to one spot. Paje.
The lady at the door took one look at the Cable Guy getup and was like, “Nah, dog. You ain’t comin’ in here wearing that.” Had they allowed me in, my fortunes would have been completely different that night.   

 

Not content with taking my L, I drove to another club. The Biology Bar.
It was in a busy club/bar district on the north side of the city.
The place was packed! So much so that there wasn’t a parking spot close to the club.

I parked 4 blocks away.

They charged $25-and like an idiot I paid it (there went the tips I earned that night).

I stayed for a while. But it seemed like a bad idea from the beginning. The music was bad. I didn’t meet any women.

I left disappointed that I wasted $25 and didn’t have fun.

As I walked to my car, I promised myself that next time I’d just go home.
I got a few feet away from my car and was about to get my keys when a dude-who was walking down the street-asked me what time it was.

____________________________________________________________

In retrospect, it was all so clear.
How could I have been so stupid as to take my eyes off a shady dude wearing a jacket in the summer who asked for the time?

Since I parked so far away, there was no one around. No passing cars. No one to help.

The guy wasn’t big or intimidating. He was short. Dumpy. I towered over him.
But dude was clear about what he wanted: my keys and my wallet.
He was standing 2 or 3 feet away with the heat pointed right at my chest.

It happened so fast. I didn’t really have time to react or think things out rationally. If I did, I probably would’ve just handed them over. But at the time, all I knew was that there was no way I was gonna give his punk ass my keys and wallet. Not even if he had a gun pointed at me. He’d have to kill me first.

I rushed him.

Grabbed his arm with both of my hands. I wanted to beat the hell out of him so bad-but there was the little matter of disarming him first so I didn’t get blasted in the face. All he had to do was squeeze his finger and I was gone.

I focused on disarming him.
I grabbed his wrists.
We struggled for what seemed like an eternity.
I couldn’t get the gun out of his hand.
He twisted his body and contorted himself like a worm so that I couldn’t.

The next thing I know, we were back to square one, with him holding the gun on me and asking for my keys and wallet again.

Only this time, dude had a confused expression. Like, “how dare this dude try and fight me.” And he was standing farther away now, so I couldn’t rush him and catch him off guard again. He looked in the other direction and I saw another dude on the corner. I thought it may have been someone coming to help, but I quickly realized they were together. He was probably looking out while dude tried to rob me.

At that point, I knew I was a goner-whether I gave him my stuff or not.

I broke out down the alley behind me. As I ran, I kept expecting to hear the gun discharge and feel a bullet go right into my back.

But it didn’t happen.
I also thought that the gunman’s henchman would be waiting on the other side of the alley when I got there.
That didn’t happen either.

Thankfully, the cops showed up (I called 911 while running through the alley) shortly thereafter.

I told ‘em what happened.
They explained that this kind of thing had happened before in this area.
People had been robbed for their money and keys.

And that I was the first one to fight back.
____________________________________________________________

I’ll always remember that night for a number of reasons.

It was really stupid for me to go out solo.
Actually fighting that dude was even MORE insane.
Is losing my wallet and car enough to risk my life?
Then again, I wonder if dude ever really intended to shoot me. He had his chances.
I wonder if the gun was even loaded-or if it was just a prop. Who’d want to take the chance of finding out?

Am I lucky to be alive? I guess I’ll never know.