“I’m gonna tear you apart, you little f___er!” That’s what I yelled at the bike thief I
caught red-handed last night.
I’d been watching T.V. when I heard some thumping
outside. “What is that?” I asked my wife
as I went to the door. Upon opening it,
a teenaged punk dropped the new trailer bike I’d bought for my son and took off
out the carport down the back lane. I
took off too, hot on his trail, barefoot in my Superman pyjamas.
I think he’d hoped a quick sprint would dissuade pursuit,
but I’ve already had two bikes stolen off my patio. I was mad – really mad - and when he looked back I was still coming.
And catching up.
Suddenly there was a can in his hand as he ran and an orange
spray wafted in my direction. My first
thought was that this punk moonlighted as a graffiti artist and was using
whatever was at his disposal to get away.
“Spray paint? Lame! I can handle being orange!” I thought.
Astute readers will, of course, by this point be aware that
it was NOT spray paint, but pepper spray.
Having never used it nor had it used on me before, I was completely
unaware of the true nature of the orange mist.
And kept running.
I think this made him panic, and he sprayed me again.
And again.
Until he went to spray me and there was none left. He tossed the can aside and kept running.
I almost had him, and . . .
He dropped his backpack.
I don’t know if he was trying to lighten his load to get more speed or
if he hoped it would trip me up, but I stopped and grabbed it. That was all I needed: surely there would be
identification in here which I could then turn over to the police. I started back down the alley towards home,
when his girlfriend got in on the action.
Didn’t I mention the girlfriend? Sorry!
When I took off after him, his girlfriend was trailing behind us and now
it was HER turn to panic as I made off with the backpack.
“Hey, that’s mine!” she
yelled. “Don’t take my backpack! Gimme back my backpack!”
“No,” I said as I kept it out of her reach. I had intended to say, “It’s going back to my
house and I’m going to call your mother,” but my eyes started burning. “Must’ve got some paint in them,” I thought.
While I was distracted, she managed to grab hold of the
backpack and instead of playing tug-of-war over the backpack, I grabbed her by
the lapels and thrust her against a garage wall. Boyfriend / bike thief was nowhere to be seen.
“Why are you taking my backpack?” she
wailed.
Seriously?
“Why are you stealing my bikes?” I growled back.
Suddenly boyfriend / bike thief reappeared from around the
garage, yelling, as something in his right hand glinted in the streetlight.
I backed off, thinking this turkey might have a knife. As he stepped into the full purview of the
streetlight, I was CERTAIN he had knife.
As he advanced on me, he was yelling imprecations about me laying hands
on his girlfriend.
Seriously?!
I kept two arm-lengths away from him and now I began to panic. I was in my PYJAMAS for goodness’ sake! I had no weapon, there was nothing in
immediate reach, and my eyes were really
starting to sting like the dickens (I still hadn’t divined the true nature of
the orange mist). Paint in my eyes,
okay, but a stab wound? Heck, no - I had
work tomorrow!
Backing away apparently gave him the space he needed and he fled,
gathering both backpack and girlfriend as he went. I turned for home, intending to determine what
had been taken / damaged, call the police to give descriptions, and wash the
paint off. Except, as the burning
increased with every step, I finally consciously realized what my unconscious brain
had been telling me all along: it wasn’t paint.
“Call an ambulance,” I told my wife as I crumpled on the
patio. “I’ve been pepper-sprayed.”
I was protected only by the tank-top and loose pants comprising
my pyjamas, so the spray hit my face, neck, upper chest, shoulders, arms, hands,
and . . . groin.
If there’s a place you do NOT want to get pepper-sprayed,
that’s it.
My wife was already on the phone with the police and an
ambulance had been dispatched, BUT . . .
The ambulance couldn’t arrive until the police did. My wife sensibly did not let me go back into
the house, but brought out a chair (which is now in the garbage) and towels to
pat myself down: “Don’t rub!” She
Googled how to treat pepper-spray burns and it turned out that milk products, particularly
whole fat ones, are the home remedy of choice so when the police arrived I was
sitting outside on a computer chair in my Superman pyjamas, wrapped in towels, eyes
swollen shut, clutching a kitchen cloth soaked in 3% milk to my crotch.
Get THAT image out of your mind . . .
Within minutes of their arrival and obtaining the descriptions
– I’m serious, minutes! – the police notified me that the “assailants” had been
detained. Now the ambulance could
come. The EMT’s first words echoed my own to the
police when they arrived and noted I’d been pepper-sprayed: “That sucks, eh?” I laughed and momentarily forgot my pain
until they took my blood pressure and pulse.
The simple warmth of the EMT’s two fingers on my wrist was
excruciating. Finally, they told me the
treatment: get in the shower.
SERIOUSLY?!! I could
have done that an hour ago!
As I hosed off (and off, and off, and off, and off, and off,
ad infinitum) under lukewarm water,
the police waited to take my statement. Fourty
minutes later, I gave it to them wrapped in nothing but a towel while standing
in front of an oscillating fan, the burning now reduced to that of a bad
sunburn (I think the painkillers helped, too).
Four pages later I signed off on it, and it was time for bed.
With all that adrenaline, it took me another few hours to
fall asleep.
But I made it to work today.
And I still have all my bikes.
