We all need that feeling of security, and we all have ways of
obtaining it. For me, there was no better feeling of security
than that provided by a Webley Mark VI revolver comfortably
filling the palm of the hand. Indeed, few things fill the hand
like the Mark VI. It reminds one of an old friend taking your
hand in a warm grasp of hearty recognition. That's why the Mark
VI was my standard evening security blanket, soundly sleeping at
the foot of my bed throughout the hours of the night. Since I
slept on a futon no more than six inches off the floor, the Mark
VI was always in easy reach. At least, this was my primary
sleeping companion before I was married.
Now, the apartment I rented was in a quite "desolate" area of
Richland Township, not far from the university, which is why I
rented it in the first place. My second floor windows (the
whole apartment was on the second floor, my meagre earnings as a
college professor not permitting me the luxury of split level
living) overlooked the parking lot. For some reason, my
neighbor, who lived on the opposite side of the building, just
on the other side of my blank walls (the building was just two
apartments wide) always parked on my side of the building. In
fact, he parked his car directly under my bedroom windows (yes,
my meagre earnings allowed me to have two adjacent bedroom
windows). Like myself, my neighbor was a professor at the
university, although, as a professor of mathematics, his
earnings were somewhat less meagre than my own. 'Marc' was his
name, and, indeed, it still is.
It turned out that one summer while we were both away on
vacation, Marc had left his buggy parked in its usual spot under
my bedroom windows for two months, maybe more. When we returned
in August of that year, Marc discovered that the linkage of his
passanger side front door was out-of-whack. Someone had tried
to break into his car using, apparently, a long thin piece of
sheet metal, the kind you slip down between the door panel and
the window. I believe they are called 'slim jims'. Well, the
attempt was unsuccessful, but it had us both a slight bit
unnerved, since it meant that someone probably knew that Marc's
car was unattended for an extended period of time. In short,
the parking lot had been "cased" as they say. But the incident
was over, and as there was nothing to be done, we forgot about
it.
The following summer, Marc again left for an extended visit to
the People's Republik of Kali-fornya-cation, leaving his car in
the same spot as always. I was in and out of town on short
trips, but nothing for any longer than a few days. As is my
wont in the weeks of warmer weather, I sleep 1) with all my
windows open, and 2) totally in the "raw" as they say. Oh, yes,
I almost forgot number 3), with the Mark VI in its usual place
at the foot of the bed. But then, 3 is in force no matter what
the weather, winter or summer.
As it happened, it was August -- late August -- and still there
was no sign of Marc. Classes were still, maybe, a week or two
off and Marc always made a last minute return. So it was just a
bit too early to expect him. The night was warm and mild, so
all three of my sleeping regulations were enforced. It was
about 2 a.m. I know, because I looked at the illuminated face
of the clock as I quite suddenly, but without excitement or
surprise, switched from sleep mode to full awareness of my
darkened surroundings. I didn't know why I had awakened. There
was no obvious reason. Moonlight lit up my bedroom windows. I
was lying peacefully on my left side, the Mark VI soundly asleep
but six inches away. I looked down and stroked her gently in
the moonlight. As I did so, I had the faintest "feeling" of
having heard something drifting through the windows. Mind you,
I didn't say that I had heard anything. I just thought that I
had heard something. So I lay dead still, ears perked, waiting,
as I had done oftentimes in the middle of the night, straining
to catch something. Then I did hear it -- a noise from the
parking lot, very close, right under the window, very faint.
The memory of what had happened to Marc's car the summer before
was now a hot flash through my scalp. At the same time my pulse
rate doubled. And I hadn't moved an inch.
Now the tips of the fingers of my right hand were stopped in mid
stroke on the grips of the Mark VI, just lightly feeling her
checkering, just ever so lightly. And ever so lightly I slipped
the remainder of my hand around her bakelite body, trigger
finger stretched along the frame, until firmly we were one.
Without moving, without making a sound, the Mark VI was as awake
as I. My feet went to the floor. My body slowly came upright,
and the Mark VI came off her perch, firmly a part of my right
hand. Silently we went to the open window and stared down into
the brightly moonlit parking lot.
There was Marc's car, in its usual place. And, there was the
driver's side door, akimbo wide open! And there was my pulse,
pounding in my throat. I searched the scene for a "perp,"
acutely aware that I was, and I am, badly near sighted, acutely
aware that I was not wearing my glasses, acutely aware that any
attempt to search for glasses might reveal myself, or, at worst,
allow the perp to get away with Marc's car. So I stared and
squinted, hoping the fog of myopia would clear. Then I saw it-a
hand came up over the dashboard. Ah! That's why I hadn't seen
him! He's under the dash! Then the top of a head bobbed up.
He's trying to hot wire the car! It was now about 2:15.
Time was awasting. What the hell should I do? Among the many
things I was now acutely aware of, was the uncomfortable fact
that I was acutely naked. Should I take time to dress? No, it
would take too long. The perp might get away. Should I shout
from the window? Then what? I can't shoot anyone for stealing
a car -- no matter how much I'd like to. Call the police? How
long would it take for the doughnut men to arrive? Would they
arrive in time? Would they start their own shooting war? But I
have pretensions of being a "man," a free citizen of a proud
republic. That kind of man doesn't call the doughnut patrol
like an old lady scared of the neighborhood skateboarders. I
had to do something, and do it myself, if only to prove
something -- to myself. It was nigh on to 2:30. Then I hit on
it.
My living room was two sets of windows to the left. It had a
large sliding glass door overlooking the parking lot. The door
opened onto a combination balcony/patio, two stories above the
parking lot. If it were not for a hemlock tree rising the
height of our building, the passenger side of Marc's car would
be visible from the patio some 75 feet away. I ran out onto the
patio, hidden from the perp's view by the hemlock tree. I could
see him, but he couldn't see me, clothed only with the Mark VI.
Now, I was in position. But, again, the problem was what to do?
I was still two stories in the air. I was still aware that
shooting a mere car thief who was not threatening your life, no
matter how inviting, could not be justified in the otherwise
more-than-gun-friendly state of Pennsylvania. Should I fire a
warning shot in the air? What good would that do? What if the
bullet accidently did damage? Still a no - no. Common sense
was still in control. My blood was boiling. My scalp burned.
It's so rare that you get to catch one of these creeps in the
very f---ing act. I was naked. I was armed. I was totally
helpless. Then I decided to just scream -- and I did.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF THAT CAR!!!!!"
The night was, well, shattered. My echo died slowly over the
parking lot, which I thought would soon be swarming with my
neighbors, blasted out of bed by the sheer rage in my voice,
blasted out of bed to see Professor Rice, on his balcony, two
stories over the parking lot, clad only with a Webley Mark VI,
naked in the moonlight. Of course the perp would be long gone,
perhaps with Marc's car. I would be left there, looking like an
ass, albeit, a well armed one.
Now up to the time of my scream, regular but subdued tinkering
could be clearly heard coming from Marc's car as I stood on the
balcony. As the echo died away, only the heavy silence of deep
night remained. Obviously, I had surprised the perp who now
ceased his work in shock or perhaps amazement. Whatever it was,
surprise, fear, or caution, he was now frozen by it, just as I
was amazed at the sound of my own voice in the night. The
silence lasted for perhaps one full minute. No one came running
into the parking lot. No windows were flung open in wild
excitement. Everything was anticlimatic. I was frozen just as
stiff as the perp, and just as unprepared for what happened
next.
From beyond the sheltering hemlock tree, from the driver's side
of Marc's car, it came. A small, cowed, squeaky voice mousily
said, in the humblest of tones, "Marty?....Is that you?" I had
caught Marc breaking into his own car.
In a similar, perhaps even humbler tone of voice I replied,
"Marc?... Is that you?"
Slowly, Marc came around the hemlock into full view. But that's
not how I saw it. Now, feeling totally asinine (or like an
ass-in-ten or twenty) I could only think that I, in naked glory,
was coming into full view of Marc. In the more than ample
moonlight my glistening white skin would be the first thing he
saw -- among other things. The Mark VI hugged my thigh, hanging
straight down. Ladies don't like to be noticed in compromising
positions. The Mark VI was no different.
Now we faced each other, Marc from the lot, I from the balcony
two stories up. "Marty," he said, "You're, you're naked!"
"Not quite," I replied, and pushed the Mark VI out front where
she could reluctantly take some of the blame as well. Marc's
eyes widened a bit as the full meaning of the scene began to
dawn on him.
"My, Gow...," he gasped, "you thought I was..."
"Stealing your own car?...Yeah."
We stared at each other, or, rather, I at him and he at the Mark
VI as she was slowly brought across my nether regions in a vain
attempt at modesty. "Why don't you come up and I'll get
dressed?"
Then Marc chuckled, the humility gone from his voice, "Good
idea!"
"And the next time you come home in the middle of the night,
tell me, all right?" I scolded him like a Jewish mother, making
it out to be partially his fault.
The Mark VI and I went back inside, she to continue her nap, and I to dress and help Marc jump start his car, whose battery was, indeed, dead.
