Brush With Death ...

I know it's been a long while since I've posted anything on here (December 21st being the last), but my new job has been kinda...well VERY...rough on me. I've jotted down some things on paper to write about, so you might be seeing little stories that seem out of date (like Christmas) in the near future. But this post was something that I needed to get down right away.

(...I'm also fighting a terrible hangover, so forgive any mistakes or running of the mouth/fingers...)

The weather had been unseasonably warm this month with temperatures hovering anywhere from 10-15 degrees above normal. That all changed Saturday night when a fierce cold front moved through, bringing with it icy winds that howled through the concrete and steel canyons of Center City. I was going to go out for a few drinks, but as I sat on my computer looking at porn--I mean reading some good wholesome...aaaah, what the hell--yes...porn, I listened to the winds racing down my street, bending the bare branches of the ginko tree, giving me fair warning to seriously think through my options: the warmth of home, infront of the television watching TV-Land's weekend marathon of All in the Family, or fighting the bone chilling winds as I trek the six blocks to the Post for a beer and a seat on a lumpy barstool. The decision was easy. And for those of you who know me and think they know the answer, let me just say this: I stayed in with Archie Bunker.

Anyway, by the time I awoke the next morning, the winds were still howling, but weren't nearly as biting as the night before. The temperature outside had dropped from 60 degrees Saturday afternoon to the low 30's twenty-four hours later. I had so many unfinished projects going on in my house (taking down Christmas decorations, laundry, cleaning, organizing, etc.) that I didn't really know where to begin, so I didn't do a damn thing. By two o'clock in the afternoon, I was very pissed at myself for not doing anything constructive and even more pissed that I smoked my last cigarette and I had to go outside into the frigid cold to get some. So, I threw on my heavy bright red Old Navy coat (which makes me look like a blister ready to pop, but keeps me warm) and headed off to the little Indian market a few blocks away.

The sun was bright, but didn't do a damn thing to warm you up and the wind whipped around the corners of the cross streets, hugging the storefronts, until reaching you, making your eyes tear up and blurring your vision.

I tucked my new pack of smokes in my coat pocket, shoved my hands deep inside with them and lowered my head within the confines of the fleece-lined collar. Staring down at the sidewalk, i quickly started walking home. A strong wind caught me off guard and I cursed it, thinking this short, two-block walk home was going to seem like a lifetime if I didn't speed things up a bit, so I started to run, crossing one intersection and hurrying through the cold shadow of the parking garage towards the next break of sunshine a block away.

My eyes staring down at the sidewalk, the only thing I can see were the shoes of the few people who passed me by heading in the opposite direction. I glanced up quickly, seeing how far I had advanced, and then looked back down again. I buried my head deeper into my coat as another wind swept down the sidewalk. I passed the entrance to the parking garage and judged that I only had about fifty feet or so left until I reached the welcoming patch of sunshine ahead. The last two landmarks to pass were the cashier's entrance to the garage (of which I was passing now) and the corner building, a beautiful two-story victorian structure currently abandoned, but still displaying signs in the storefront picture window, stating that it was once the home of the parking authority for that police district.

I usually pay no mind to noises around me (unless, of course, it's the squealing of brakes if I'm crossing an intersection), but there was something in the blood curdling scream of a female off to my right that sent a chill through my body that no icy winter wind could match. One command from that piercing scream made me obey without hesitation:

"STOOOOOOOOOOP!!!........

As if an invisible wall was suddenly before me, I stopped dead in my tracks, slightly off-balanced due to my hands being shoved deep in my pockets. I had no idea who had screamed or why, but I looked around and spotted a stocky black woman standing across the street, a look of terror on her face as she stared back at me, her arms infront of her as if trying to physically hold me back, one hand tightly gripped around her cell phone. I still had no idea what this was all about and why I stopped, but I watched as she brought the cell phone up to her ear and frantically speak to someone on the other end. The only words I could make out were: "get the police over here right away!"

Oh my God, I thought. Have I been mistaken for a robber or mugger or something? A sudden panic enveloped me as I watched the woman snap her phone shut and cross the street towards me. My first instinct was to run, but then I figured, unless there was a new law against not doing housework, then I had no reason to run. I nervously stood my ground, readying myself to go into defense mode, as the woman neared. The panic expression was still on her face, but I can also see a small hint of concern in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She asked as she reached me. She extended her hand and touched my arm.

I looked at her quizically, wondering who the fuck she thought I was. "Yeah," I replied.

"Jesus, you nearly killed yourself!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see?"

My blank expression must've been answer enough for her and she pointed infront of me. At first, I didn't know what she was pointing at and I thought she was just abso-fucking-lutely nuts. But then my eyes started to focus on the object of her attention. It was hard to see because of the angle and height and because it nearly matched perfectly to the color of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the parking lot across the intersection.

What I suspect had happened at some point was this: Whether it was the winds that morning or the night before, or a vandal, the plate glass window on the corner Victorian building (either abandoned or housing the parking authority) had gotten broken. The break started in almost the exact center of the window and extended outwards towards the four corners, creating an "X" effect and dividing the pane into four almost equal pieces. The bottom piece (my guestimate would be a triangular section about 4 feet across at the base and rising about 3 feet to a point at the initial break) had broken free from the rest of the pane, but was still being supported in the window track.

Why it had taken so long for me to focus on what I was seeing was because, not only was the glass tinted a dark brown, making the broken edges almost black (thus blending into the wrought iron fence), but the top edge of it was also at perfect eye level, so I couldn't see a reflective surface of the glass, only the 1/4 inch thick line of the broken edge.

I thanked the lady for the....(for lack of better term)...heads up. At this point, it still hadn't dawned on me what had just happened, so I just stared at the hanging sheet of broken glass and listened to the woman say how close I had come to having my head taken off. Only a few words of her's registered in my mind...

"...running down right towards it..."

"...bloody mess..."

"...lose your head..."

The police arrived a few minutes later. They inspected the glass and carefully pushed it back up and inside the hole. I thanked the lady again and made my way home.

It wasn't until I was home, out of my coat and sitting infront of the television again that it dawned on me what actually just happened. If that woman hadn't been looking at me at that exact moment. She may still have been across the street on the phone (I later found out she was actually reporting the glass to 9-1-1), but if she had looked away for just a brief second, that might have been the end of my existence, taken out of this world in the style of a b-rated bloody horror movie. That sheet of glass was angled in such a way that, if I had run into it, it would've gashed me from my above my left jawline and diagonally up through my nose to above my right eye. If I had run into it hard enough, it might have actually scalped me.

The thought brought on the image of the photographer being decapitated in The Omen. It was a scene that had haunted me as a child. To actually realize that something very similar had nearly happened to me sent chills down my spine and turned my legs to jell-o. My heart began to race as the dawning of how close I had come began to surface.

I had come close to death a few times in my life. I've had a home invasion with an eight-inch blade pressed against my throat, I've missed car accidents where a last-minute decision of one sort or another had kept me from becoming another statistic. If I believed in destiny and our lives being already planned out, then I would believe there was still some reason why I'm still here. I just wish someone would clue me in from time to time.