How About Them Apples? (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
applespice) wrote2011-11-11 06:56 pm
applespice) wrote2011-11-11 06:56 pm
LJ Idol - Week 4 - What does narcissism have to do with me?
When I was seven, I was almost kidnapped. Unlike most of my early memories, which seem to swirl together in a summery haze of fresh-mown grass and bare feet slapping against hot asphalt, that day stands out in my mind in stark grays. I had just learned to ride my bicycle without training wheels, and nothing could keep me from the outdoors – not even the damp promise of rain hanging in the air. So I ventured out into that heavy sky, the purple tinsel streamers of my bike handles fluttering against the backs of my hands, ignoring my mother’s dire warnings of impending sniffles.
Back then, my range was limited to the sidewalk in front of my house and those on either side. I would ride up one way, dismount the bike, turn it, and get back on to ride the fifty feet to my next boundary. The sidewalk was too narrow for a proper turn, but my seven-year-old self soon tired of the unwieldy dance that preceded each brief burst of uninhibited pedaling – I wanted the wind in my hair, and I wanted it now. So with little on my mind beyond the soaring feeling that accompanied a full-out burst of bicycle speed, it wasn't long before I turned my white rubber wheels into the grass of my neighbor’s lawn.
It didn’t end well. I didn’t have the balance yet to handle the uneven terrain of a suburban lawn, so I toppled over before I even had a chance to face the other way. Worse, the bike chain snagged on the rainbow lace trim that bordered my skirt, and I soon found myself helplessly tangled.
The truck materialized beside me so quickly that it was hard to believe I hadn’t already seen it. It was just there, out of nowhere, idling beside my crash site where there had previously been an empty stretch of road. Suddenly the struggle to get free of the bike seemed more important, though at the time I couldn’t tell you why. I just knew I wanted to get out, get up, and get away from this strange, bundled-up man in the white truck. He was swaddled in a heavy parka and baseball cap, despite the relative warmth of the day. I don’t remember anything about his face.
Somehow I managed to pull myself free and push the bike off my legs. As I began to stand, the door of the truck popped open.
That’s the moment I remember best – the sound of the truck door opening. That’s the moment I look back on and think, everything could have changed. My life could have darkened, twisted, even ended that day, and the opening of that door would have been the catalyst.
It’s hard to remember exactly what I thought or felt at that moment. Though visually the entire scene has crystallized in my memory, the exact details of my seven-year-old thought process has not. But I remember relief – relief and the sudden sense of my thundering heartbeat – when my mom stepped out onto our front porch and called my name.
The man in the truck slammed the door and hit the gas. The white truck tore away in a squeal of tires. It barreled down the street and disappeared over the crest of the big hill we always begged our parents to let us go down on our bikes or skates. I never saw it, or the man, again.
It’s easy to look back and see this as a pivotal moment. What would have happened had my mother not been looking out of the window? What would have happened had the man stepped out of the truck, approached me on the grass, taken my hand? A boy had been killed not far from our neighborhood only a year before, his body left in a shallow creek within walking distance. It wasn’t impossible that I could have died that day.
But I didn’t think about that. The moment came and went. My mother called me into the house, her face drawn and her hands shaking, and I went to play in my room. I didn’t consider how close I came to death – of course I didn’t, I was seven. But even now, looking back on that moment, it doesn’t seem possible to me that I might have died. In fact, it never seems possible to me that I could die. Not really.
People talk about how teenagers think they’re invincible. And that’s true – a lot of them do. The behavior I see in the student parking lot at the school where I work every day is more than a testament to that. But don’t we all think we’re a little bit invincible? Maybe not to the degree of engaging in high-risk behavior or even actively thinking that there’s no way we could ever possibly die – but the idea of death always seems very remote. We push it away. Or, at least, I do.
Yes, it could happen. Yes, sometimes I’m afraid. But a part of me, deep down, always holds close that thought - it’s not my time yet. Deep down, I think I’m too important, too special to die. I’ve got things to do, don’t you know? Things to say. It’s not my time yet. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now.
Will it ever be?
Back then, my range was limited to the sidewalk in front of my house and those on either side. I would ride up one way, dismount the bike, turn it, and get back on to ride the fifty feet to my next boundary. The sidewalk was too narrow for a proper turn, but my seven-year-old self soon tired of the unwieldy dance that preceded each brief burst of uninhibited pedaling – I wanted the wind in my hair, and I wanted it now. So with little on my mind beyond the soaring feeling that accompanied a full-out burst of bicycle speed, it wasn't long before I turned my white rubber wheels into the grass of my neighbor’s lawn.
It didn’t end well. I didn’t have the balance yet to handle the uneven terrain of a suburban lawn, so I toppled over before I even had a chance to face the other way. Worse, the bike chain snagged on the rainbow lace trim that bordered my skirt, and I soon found myself helplessly tangled.
The truck materialized beside me so quickly that it was hard to believe I hadn’t already seen it. It was just there, out of nowhere, idling beside my crash site where there had previously been an empty stretch of road. Suddenly the struggle to get free of the bike seemed more important, though at the time I couldn’t tell you why. I just knew I wanted to get out, get up, and get away from this strange, bundled-up man in the white truck. He was swaddled in a heavy parka and baseball cap, despite the relative warmth of the day. I don’t remember anything about his face.
Somehow I managed to pull myself free and push the bike off my legs. As I began to stand, the door of the truck popped open.
That’s the moment I remember best – the sound of the truck door opening. That’s the moment I look back on and think, everything could have changed. My life could have darkened, twisted, even ended that day, and the opening of that door would have been the catalyst.
It’s hard to remember exactly what I thought or felt at that moment. Though visually the entire scene has crystallized in my memory, the exact details of my seven-year-old thought process has not. But I remember relief – relief and the sudden sense of my thundering heartbeat – when my mom stepped out onto our front porch and called my name.
The man in the truck slammed the door and hit the gas. The white truck tore away in a squeal of tires. It barreled down the street and disappeared over the crest of the big hill we always begged our parents to let us go down on our bikes or skates. I never saw it, or the man, again.
It’s easy to look back and see this as a pivotal moment. What would have happened had my mother not been looking out of the window? What would have happened had the man stepped out of the truck, approached me on the grass, taken my hand? A boy had been killed not far from our neighborhood only a year before, his body left in a shallow creek within walking distance. It wasn’t impossible that I could have died that day.
But I didn’t think about that. The moment came and went. My mother called me into the house, her face drawn and her hands shaking, and I went to play in my room. I didn’t consider how close I came to death – of course I didn’t, I was seven. But even now, looking back on that moment, it doesn’t seem possible to me that I might have died. In fact, it never seems possible to me that I could die. Not really.
People talk about how teenagers think they’re invincible. And that’s true – a lot of them do. The behavior I see in the student parking lot at the school where I work every day is more than a testament to that. But don’t we all think we’re a little bit invincible? Maybe not to the degree of engaging in high-risk behavior or even actively thinking that there’s no way we could ever possibly die – but the idea of death always seems very remote. We push it away. Or, at least, I do.
Yes, it could happen. Yes, sometimes I’m afraid. But a part of me, deep down, always holds close that thought - it’s not my time yet. Deep down, I think I’m too important, too special to die. I’ve got things to do, don’t you know? Things to say. It’s not my time yet. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now.
Will it ever be?
no subject
You tell this story very well, vividly, and I'm glad you are safe and able to share it.