The convenience store parking lot was flooded with fluorescent lights and the glowing yellow and orange plastic AM/PM sign. Ryan jumped out of the truck and peered through the window as he shut the door. He handed me a fifty and said that he would get the gas if I paid. I nodded, and we exchanged keys for money.

Ryan and I worked the six to midnight shift together at KIT, KATS, and KICKS 93 on weekends. He worked there pretty much all week (he’s a natural), but the rest of the week I wrote for the newspaper. Every week I gave him a ride home and in return he gave me gas money, which I thought was outrageous because he only lived about a mile from the radio station.

As I made my way across the parking lot, I noticed the attendant leaning against the side of the building, just outside the double glass doors, smoking a cigarette. He looked a little paranoid, slightly frazzled and definitely wired. I glanced back at Ryan and he gave me one of his Jim Carrey looks, pointed both index fingers at me and clicked his tongue. This was Ryan’s signature. It meant “You da man”—or woman in my case. I laughed and gave him my I know look, as I stuck my nose in the air and spun around.

The attendant was watching me walk toward him when he was distracted by a brown van pulling into the parking lot. I followed his gaze to my left, stepped up on the pump island, and paused until the van stopped in front of the unoccupied pump next to me. It was safe to cross.

Four or five Hispanic males between eighteen and twenty exited the van from both sides. They looked like typical kids dressed in gangster type clothing: baggy jeans, sweatshirts, jerseys with famous names or teams, and the like.

As the attendant kept an eye on the Hispanics, he carefully extinguished his half smoked cigarette, saving it for later no doubt. When I reached the entrance, he smiled, opened the door, and motioned me ahead of him. I thanked him and made my way past the glass food warmer—the one with the greasy burritos and dried-up fried chicken. The kind of food that suckers you in when you’re starving. But there’s no need to eat it; you might as well just take it and smear it all over your thighs.

The attendant was leaning against the counter while he studied the Hispanics’ every move through the window. I put my purse on the counter, handed the attendant Ryan’s fifty, and began searching through my bills to see if I had anything smaller than a hundred. Friday was payday at the newspaper, and I hadn’t made it to the bank yet. I informed him we needed ten in gas and asked him to only take three out of Ryan’s fifty, since he wanted a pack of Marlboros.

The door was pushed open, and the buzzer momentarily distracted us. It was one of the Hispanics. He looked at me and gave me a genuine smile and I gave him one in return. He was tall with a thin, yet muscular build. He had a half-shaved head, and the longer portion of his black hair was hidden under a red bandanna. He was almost beautiful for a young guy, with very defined features and a nice smile.

I found a twenty and handed it to the attendant. Red Bandanna’s friends sounded off the buzzer and formed a line behind him. Several conversations were taking place—some in Spanish and some in English. The attendant handed me my change. I picked up the cigarettes and stepped aside, put the money in my purse, and headed out. I could feel their eyes follow me out the door. “Three in gas,” I heard Red Bandanna say.

Ryan was climbing into the truck as I reached the driver’s side. I handed him the cigarettes and his change. He shoved it in his wallet and ripped open the cigarette pack. He started explaining how he sprained his wrist. “Yeah, I was riding my bike to work on Thursday . . .”

As I started the truck and began to buckle my seat belt, I realized someone was observing me. I looked up; it was Red Bandanna. He was leaning against one of the unoccupied pumps. I was kind of embarrassed, so I gave him a closed-lip smile (not quite as big as before) and glanced in his friends’ direction. One was returning the nozzle to the pump while the others were hanging around the van talking. A couple of them glanced in my direction.

Out of habit, I locked my door. I noticed Red Bandanna was watching. A surge of guilt and shame ran through my body. I could have waited to lock my door; I just didn’t think about it. I wanted to explain that I always locked my door. It wasn’t him personally—you just can’t be too careful. I wanted to let him know that I wasn’t prejudiced, but my actions spoke differently. I wanted to apologize, to make things right. But what was done was done, and nothing I could have said would have changed his opinion of me.

Ryan continued, “So then, I’m going across the tracks up on Front, and some jerk . . .” I pulled out of the AM/PM, popped in my Tracy Chapman disc and headed up Yakima Avenue.

I reassured Ryan that I was listening with an “uh-huh,” here and an “oh-my-gosh” there, but I couldn’t get Red Bandanna out of my head. My heart wrenched, and my throat began to swell. I couldn’t help but think how I would feel if someone saw me and thought it necessary to lock their door. I remembered his expression changing from admiration to what seemed to be sadness, and then to hatred. My eyes started to water and I began blinking rapidly. “Get a grip!” I told myself as I glanced out the side window so Ryan couldn’t see my face.

Then I saw the headlights. How could I not? They were the only other lights on the road. As I riveted my attention to the rear view mirror, questions emerged. Was it them? I made a turn. Slowly, yet persistently, they followed. I felt their eyes on me, like hyenas stalking their prey; apprehensive yet dedicated to the hunt.

As I surveyed the area for familiarities, I realized we were only half a block away from Ryan’s street. There would be people at Ryan’s house; there were always people there.

“And right there! That’s where I got the flat!” Ryan informed me as he pointed accusingly at a shattered beer bottle on the side of the road.

Giving him a courteous glance and a distant “Oh-my-gosh,” I looked into the rear view mirror for the twentieth time in one minute. Slowly we turned down Ryan’s street and I watched as they followed.

I tried to keep my impetuosity at a minimum, but my head and chest were ready to explode. My limbs were turning both cold and sweaty as I awaited the inevitable. It was necessary to include Ryan in on the situation, but my mouth was dry and there wasn’t enough time.

Momentarily I gained control and forced myself to speak. I Interrupted Ryan and asked him if his door was locked. He answered me with a puzzled look and shrug of the shoulders. As I ordered him to secure his door, I rechecked mine. Rolling my eyes dramatically I thought, Of course it’s locked, you idiot. I wanted to kick myself. Isn’t that what started this whole thing in the first place?

Again, I looked in the mirror. Ryan read my body language, spun around and stared out the back window. We both looked at each other, and I could see my same questions run across his face.

We pulled into the driveway. I gripped the steering wheel and the automatic shift handle as I kept my eyes on the van through the rear view mirror—waiting. Simultaneously, I took the truck out of gear—from drive to neutral, from neutral to reverse, and finally to park. The truck jerked, and Ryan, who was looking out the back window, began a frantic search for the door handle and pulled it twice before remembering he had locked it. In a controlled, demanding tone, I ordered him to stay in the truck. He obeyed.

My eyes were fixed on the mirror and I saw them jump, one by one, out of the sliding door of the van. One, two, three. They pulled the hoods from their sweatshirts up over their heads. I felt like I was watching a scene out of a movie. This was actually happening. My head felt like it had been hit by a sledgehammer.

The music paused momentarily, and Tracy Chapman began a new song: “People say it doesn’t exist, because no one would like to admit that there is a city underground.” Ryan was wearing a mask of confusion, and I knew I was too. A new set of questions emerged. What do they want? What are they going to do? Why us? Ryan looked desperate, and I could tell that he wanted to bolt. So did I, but I knew it was much safer in the truck, with the windows rolled up and the doors locked, than it was out there with them. Two of them appeared in Ryan’s window; they were cursing and yelling, “Open the door!” They pounded on his window. Ryan spun around, and I told him not to open the door. We stared dumbfoundedly as they jerked ferociously at the handle.

Behind me I heard steel smashing into glass, over and over. My heart stopped and my eyes winced with each contact. I turned my head towards the window and was greeted by a blue handgun. I froze. My eyes didn’t move off the gun, and like a cobra hypnotized by the flute, I seemed to dance at every movement it made. My world grew silent. I was going to die.

He punctuated his demand for my purse with an epithet. In a conciliatory voice, Ryan told me to just give him my purse. We each seemed to take control of the situation when the other one had momentarily lost it. Ryan was now in control and brought me out of my trance.

Oh, yeah, my purse—of course—that’s what he wanted. Quickly, I grabbed my purse and
rolled the window down just far enough to shove it through. I pushed; he pulled. He made another demand: “Your wallet! Now!”

Ryan slowly reached into his back pocket and began to pull out his wallet while assuring him, “It's cool, man. I’m just getting my wallet.” He handed me his wallet, and I held it through the opening of the window. The young man grabbed it and ran his fingers over mine in the process. I was aware of every feeling created by the exchange. I jerked my hand back, and for the first time I looked at his face. He was screaming at Ryan, “What do ya got in your hands?”

I watched his perfectly-shaped lips move in slow motion, but my comprehension level had long since failed me. Examining his face more closely, I realized it had the same beautiful features I had seen earlier, but now the anger and hatred that had emerged distorted his face. I looked at his head, and underneath the black hood I saw the red bandanna.

Tracy Chapman sang on: “You say there’s too much crime in these city streets, my sentiments exactly. Here in sub-city life is hard . . .”

It was obvious he was just as scared as we were—scared of his own actions, his capabilities, and his power. The young man was screaming hysterically, and the gun was now a little off to the side. I could sense that this was the deciding point. He had the money; what was next? We didn’t know—and neither did he. He continued to yell at Ryan, perhaps looking for a reason to use the gun, but Ryan remained calm. He just kept saying, “It’s cool, man. It’s cool.”

Unsure of his next move, the young man paused and stared. He looked at the gun and then back at us as if he wasn’t sure how far he was willing to go. I could see him shake, and I watched a trickle of sweat make its way down his forehead. A rush of fear swept over me once more. I remembered my father telling me that it takes a person three seconds to pull a trigger after they stop talking.

The anticipation became too much, and I could feel myself losing control. I began to count. One. I buried my face into my hands, “Oh God, oh God,” I pleaded. Two. I doubled over and felt Ryan shield my head with his hands. On the count of three, I saw blackness and flinched involuntarily as I awaited a bullet. When nothing happened, I sat up. He was gone.

I noticed that during the ordeal, Ryan and I had moved to the center of the seat and that I was practically sitting on his lap. We didn’t move; we didn’t make a sound. We just sat there and tried to decipher our next move. The engine was still running, the clock on the dash ticked, and the music played on.

Was it just yesterday that I was having lunch with the senator and some other government officials? It seemed a world away, filled with men and women who wore power and dignity as their shield of protection. Yes, it was far away from neon, guns, and young men who’ve been pushed aside too many times.

Tracy Chapman ended the song: “I’m at the mercy of this world, guess I’m lucky to be alive . . . I’d like to please, give Mr. President my honest regards for disregarding me.”