In the 1970’s, for seven dollars, I enjoyed Broadway matinees like “Pajama Game,” “The King and I,” and “Chicago,” every Wednesday.
One Wednesday I parked my car in an underground parking garage off 42nd street, which was noted for XXX movies, drugs, prostitutes and flea bag rooms rented by the hour. I knew that if my stride was purposeful, and I didn’t make eye contact, odds were I wouldn’t be molested, raped or murdered as I walked down the street. There were occasional wolf whistles, and wise guys with “Hey baby, come and get it,” comments. And one time a smelly creep with soiled jeans, filthy tee shirt, greasy hair, and oozing pustules on his face attempted to win me over by walking backwards, two feet in front of me, pledging his love and reciting obscenities he thought we might enjoy doing together. I looked right through him and restrained my impulse to scream and barf.
After the show I headed for my car when, suddenly, my left knee buckled and I found myself eating the sidewalk. I was wearing a suit, heels and white lacy undies, as everyone on that corner could attest to. I was mortified.
I couldn’t get up. My knee had locked in a bent position and to move it was excruciating.
Staring down at me were two gigantic black men. There was little doubt that I would soon be sucking in my last breath of air.
Each was eight feet tall. One, I’m certain, was a pimp. He wore a sombrero size purple hat, edged in leopard. His silk purple suit jacket had wide leopard lapels and a shoulder span the width of a Volkswagen. His pegged pants led straight to his pointed, purple, patent leather shoes.
The other one, a Mr. T clone, was menacing. He stood with his legs spread, and bulging, muscular arms crossed over his massive chest. His tee shirt sleeves were torn off, probably during a violent street fight, and the front of his shirt was ripped into a V, down to his navel. He wore numerous gold chains, and rings covered most of his fingers. He had a Mohawk haircut.
Mr. T spoke. “Ya’ need help, lady?”
“No thanks. I’ll be okay.”
“Lemme help ya’ up.” He held out a hand.
“No, really, I can do it.” I tried to move, but couldn’t.
“Here lady,” he stooped down to help. “Take my arm.”
“You’re very kind. First let me try again.” Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.
I tried, but the pain was unbearable. I was at his mercy.
He reached down and scooped me into his arms. “Where’s yer car?”
Dear God, he’s going to whisk me off to a rent-by-the-hour room, and have his way with me.
“Two blocks down,” I pointed. You don’t have to do this.” Forget paying for a room. He’s going to rape me in the underground garage and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
As he walked my mind whirled. I hope I’m not too heavy for him. I gained a few pounds, so maybe he won’t rape me after all. I wonder if he thinks I’m fat. Am I insane? Who thinks like this?
What seemed like hours later, we arrived at my car. I leaned over and put my key into the door. He opened it, gently placed me in the driver’s seat, shut the door, and walked away. My heart was pounding. He didn’t rape me. Why? Had he found me unattractive? It had to be of the extra weight.
I waved a $10 bill out the window. “Wait. Take this. Please.” He continued walking, and waved goodbye.
I waited for my heart rate to slow down, and thought about what a terrible person I was for judging this man by his appearance. He was my Prince Charming, and I wondered what I would have done had he not been there to rescue me.
Then I drove to New Jersey’s St. Barnabus Hospital for knee surgery.
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