Lessons in the Big City

I was living in a beautiful apartment in Seattle. The neighborhood was called Queen Anne. Old building, incredible architecture, with views of Elliot Bay and the Space Needle. It was probably built in the 1940s.

There were two of us at the time, with a third joining later. Two women, one man.

I loved it there. I even loved my temp job in the highest building in Seattle. I worked on the 70th floor for an international shipping company. On days with high winds, I could feel the sway of that massive structure. (It’s just to the right of the Space Needle in the photo.)

Every weekday morning, I would wait at the bus stop in my pinstriped lady suit (with shoulder pads, of course). Tennis shoes were on my feet, with my work shoes tucked in my bag, with my lunch. My hair was permed; I had trendy earrings and energy to spare. I imagined myself quite worldly. I had a job in an office! I was using public transportation! I had two professional receptionist costumes in my closet! I felt like Mary Richards in the opening of the Mary Tyler Moore Show where she throws her hat in the air.

SIDE NOTE: I just read on Wikipedia that the “older” woman in the opening sequence (who was probably what my age is now) was Hazel Frederick, who got to meet MTM on a book tour. MTM introduced her as “my co-star.” I loved MTM.

I should get to the bloody naked man part.

Not totally naked. Saggy grey underpants. One sock.

It was evening, and I had heard the bell for the outside door, which backed to the parking lot. From the door of our apartment, you could see down a short hall to the outer door to the building.

There he was, in the dim light, shivering, pathetic, hugging himself in the cold, with an alarming gash on the side of his neck.

It reminded me of the gash my dog chewed in my Barbie’s neck as a kid. The wound was gaping, with a chunk of flesh flapping hanging down.

I went down the hall. On the other side of the outer glass door was a young man, bleeding and covered in grime, staring in at me. I could see he couldn’t have a weapon and was such a slight little fella. How could I not help?

My roommate was in the shower. Surely she wouldn’t mind if I helped this stranger.

“Please help me!” he cried. “I was attacked, and they beat me and stole my clothes!”

He looked around, panicked in case these hooligans would reappear.

Of course I let him in.

I bought his story, no questions asked.

Sitting him down on the couch, I gave him a blanket to wrap himself in and a washcloth to press to his flappy neck. Poor dear.

I asked if he would like some herbal tea. Even before Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory, I knew a hot beverage was in order.

These hooligans must have dragged him around in the street, I thought, to get him so scraped up! How awful they even took his clothes! His most apparent wound wasn’t gushing but was kind of, you know, drippy. I was grateful he was a good clotter, but to see it was tough. I told him I’d call an ambulance, and he could warm up with his tea. Oh, and by the way, my lady roommate is just in the shower, and we could have a cozy chat when she got out until the ambulance showed up.

A hostess extraordinaire.

I went into the kitchen to make the tea and call for an ambulance, leaving him on our couch.

I heard the door to our balcony open.

The balconies were all had low walls, making it easy to hop over across all the terraces of the other apartments.

I came out from the kitchen, to find SURPRISE! He was gone.

Hmmm. I had called 911 already for the ambulance and was standing there stupidly holding a mug of tea for my guest.

Maybe I should have offered coffee?

My roommate came out of the bathroom, rubbing her hair with a towel. There I was with the tea, the blanket on the couch, a bloody washcloth, and a trail of blood drops leading to the balcony door.

I explained it all. I don’t think she appreciated me letting Naked Bloody Underpants Man into the apartment, despite the fact he had no weapons and looked like he weighed maybe 90 pounds.

Welcome to the Big City, Mawde!

Instead of throwing your beret into the air, maybe take some self-defense courses and learn about Stranger Danger. That way, I could have punched him in the throat if he tried anything and THEN brought him tea.

The police showed up. They examined the blood, looked over the balcony, and probably did a face-palm on the way out, at my naiveté.

He was a burglar. His method was to wiggle down chimneys into apartments and houses. But, they surmised, he got stuck and managed to lose all his clothes trying to wiggle back out, gashing his neck in the process.

He had been working in our neighborhood, but the police hadn’t been able to catch him. Lucky for them, I let him scamper off across our backyards like a naked chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. He probably kicked up his skinny little feet. Chim Chim Cher-ee!

My roommate was less than thrilled that I let in a naked stranger while she was naked in the shower. We were both relieved to welcome a new roommate, a man, to our place as it left us somewhat shaken. See, in the olden days, women looked to men for protection. These days, we arm ourselves and become black belts in martial arts, or have a large dog, or tasers or we JUST DON’T LET STRANGE MEN INTO OUR HOMES.

I wonder what happened to Naked Bloody Underpants Man. The gash would have needed stitches. Did he run naked to an ER? Did his roommate stitch him up? Did the experience shake him onto the straight and narrow?

And I wonder if he ever thinks about that silly but well-meaning, 24-year-old woman who wrapped him up and was making him tea.

Originally posted on Medium.com