BANISHMENT 17: Masked Men Hiding in my Closet

I have always been a little skittish of the night. When I was a kid, it never had anything to do with Boogie Men or extraterrestrial creatures hovering down from space and carrying me out through the window. All that stuff was silly. "Child's play." What scared me was real people. The men who offered you lollipops before you stepped into their 1987 sedan with black leather interior. They would be so nice to begin with, their voices as soft and deceiving as cotton candy, and then they'd pluck you from the public view and take you back to a dark place where they'd cut you open using at least 47 knives. Those were the ones to be frightened of. And those certainly were the ones who were hiding in my closet. Boogie Man, Schmoogie Man. 



When I was young, maybe seven or eight, my dad was out of town and my sister and I were huddled up in my parents' bedroom reading a book with my mom before we went to bed that night. All of a sudden we heard, with absolute clarity, the sound of the refrigerator door opening. Panic started a marathon in my veins. And then, when I thought it could get no worse, we heard another sound. I hoped I was just hearing things, but I looked at my mom, who I expected to reassure me and kiss my troubled temple, but she was snow white. She had closed the book and was leaning forward, waiting for just one more thump.

She dialed 9-1-1. I didn't hear the person on the other line, but I assumed she was telling my mother that we were all going to die. That the policemen were far, far away eating donuts at the precinct and there was no way they could get to our house in time. I sulked further and further into the sheets, trying to dissolve into them as though I were washing detergent. Undetectable and tiny. 

But my mother did not begin crying. She kept her hand on the phone, kept nodding her head, looked at my sister and I, told us to close the door and stay put, and that she'd be back shortly. Apparently, the police officer was almost there and my mother needed to walk down the long, windy steps all the way to the front door and let him in. I wanted to cry. My mother was going to be murdered by the man who had opened our refrigerator.

Much to my surprise, however, my mother made it to the front door alive and welcomed in a large brunette man with a gun. I had never been so close to a police officer in my entire life. He told my mom to go stay with us while he checked things out, and then he prowled through our den and our kitchen, our dining room and our guest room with his weapon extended. 

The official verdict: no trespasser.

I couldn't believe it. 

After that night, I began a ritual. I compulsively checked that our doors were locked . I looked under my bed  in my closet. I slept with my door closed so I could hear an intruder turn the doorknob, which, I supposed, would give me enough time mentally prepare to obliterate them with my mad people hunting skills. 

This ritual of protection against men with lollipops who drive 1987 sedans continued all the way through college. And then two years ago I moved to Germantown, an area of Nashville that schizophrenically splits its time between being the projects and the new home of affluence. I had just moved into an amazing apartment on the top level of an old, beautiful victorian house. My neighbor, I would come to find out, was an electric wheelchair driving drug dealer who had no idea how to take showers. About a week into new residence, it was 3 AM and I was fast asleep when I heard blaring sirens fly down my street. They stopped directly in front of my window and flashed their lights . I got out of bed, expecting, I suppose, to see someone pulled over, but instead I found three police officers barricading themselves behind their car, guns drawn, pointed at my neighbor's house. They were yelling intensely. "Get the f*** down" Get the f*** down!"

I tried to peer at my neighbor's house and see who needed to get the f*** down, but the window blocked my view. Immediately I broke into a sheer panic. What if the person who needed to get the f*** down escaped behind the house and decided to climb my stairs and seek refuge in my apartment? What if I was going to become a hostage, forever known as the girl who got between the police and the drugs? What if tonight was the night I was going to die? There were so many things I hadn't yet accomplished. I knew I had to do something. I had to stop the electric wheelchair driving drug dealer from breaking in. My move?  I pushed my 100-year-old cherry dresser in front of my door and barricaded myself in the bedroom.

The police rushed the house guns drawn and five minutes later came out, quite nonchalantly, no electric wheelchair driving drug dealer in tow, got in their cars, and drove off as though they were headed to a picnic to eat coleslaw. 



What about me?!? I thought. Where is my memo? Shouldn't you tell me what the bloody hell is happening on my street at three in the morning? Am I still in danger of becoming a newly minted hostage? How am I supposed to go back to bed at a time like this? But they didn't answer because they had long since driven away to eat their pimento cheese on rye and I was left to spend the next 3 hours till sunrise reorganizing things like my underwear drawer and my photo collections.

Now, fast forward two years later, and I live alone. No man. No dog. No newly acquired kung fu skills. Just creaky hardwood floors, highly ineffective blinds and a neighbor with a very unfortunate black sedan. A veritable playground for men who liked to hide in closets. So when I came home last night and saw a glass jar of acorns smashed on my porch, I knew something terrible was afoot. Who would want to put chipmunk food in a mason jar and smash it on my property unless they intended to cause me bodily harm? Acorn smashing must be the new trademark of serial killers and I must be the new target.

Needless to say, I checked the locks on my doors 32 times before I went to bed. I sent intense stay-away-from-here vibes to anyone that might be lurking in the trees or trash cans. And then I got into the covers to wait for the man with the lollipop who drove a black sedan and smashed acorns on my porch to make his grand appearance.

I have to tell you, I am not very good at waiting for death. I do a lot of high-pitched breathing and quick glances of my eyes from left to right. Then I proceed to turn on any sound possible to obstruct my hearing of the forthcoming killer. Bathroom fan goes on full blast. iTunes streaming on the computer. If it were feasible, I'd hire a marching band to play the national anthem in the kitchen all night long.

Inevitably, despite my best efforts to go into early cardiac arrest, I fell asleep. Glasses on. Phone in hand. Band of Horses in the background. I can only presume the Acorn Man broke in, took one look, and left because the take was too damn easy. Next time, though, I'll give him a run for his money. I'll buy a taser.