Duck umbrellas rule!

I've lived in Boston for going on nine years. Other than lack of ability to find a long-term relationship with a significant other, I pride myself on a certain level of boldness that might be summed up as such:

1) If there is something I want to do, I'll do it. I know from stupid.

2) If that something is walking home alone, at night, I'll do it because my confident stride will repel all evil-doers.

Of course, on one occasion in 2005, such chutzpah was no help. 12:30 a.m., two blocks from my Dorchester home, I was coming from the train after a late dinner in Cambridge. I'd walked that street, easily, a thousand times at all hour. But on that October morning, a man ran at me from behind and pulled my backpack from my shoulder.....which I fought for with great screaming, and ultimately lost when he ripped it away and I hit the pavement palms first, breaking several fingers.

That was the last time I've walked home wearing high heels and a skirt....major surgery and four months of OT will do that. Since then I've walked a lot of places, and it is all tennis shoes all the time. It also triggered my attacker-awareness-sensors....which had, before that, laid untested.

Last night found me in the Boston Common testing the reaction, once again. These things seem to always happen on nights where I'm ruminating on how nice it is to live in a city such as ours. A friend and I had just come from a French comedy at the Kendall Square Cinema, strolling and swinging our umbrellas in spite of the drizzle, across the Longfellow Bridge and back into Boston. At the point of the park he went his way, I went mine....and I was so filled with contentment and confidence that I kept on through the near-empty park, forgetting the hour and the reputation of the place.

Is it because my right foot is gimpy that my stride no longer has repellent-evildoer qualities?Seemingly. I was nearly across to Tremont Street when a fine gentleman--small in stature, hunched and wearing a beige windbreaker--crossed in front of me at a path intersection and began walking in step.

"Where's Washington Street?" he said.

"Straight ahead," I replied, still walking. This usually works.

"How far ahead?" he said, also still walking.

I pointed up the sidewalk. "About a block." My eyes started to dart, looking for other walkers.

"Say, miss, do you have some money I could have?" Now he had turned and was walking backwards in front of me.

Shit.

"No sir, not," I still hadn't broke stride. But he did, cutting me off.

"Oh, come on."

"Sir, please, leave me alone. No." He grabbed my right arm.

"Hey there, hands off!" I jerked away and began backing up. And started yelling for help.

"Don't do that!" he screamed back, whiny, as if insulted. He grabbed my arm again.

I batted his grip with my hot-pink duck umbrella. This made him let go, only to shove his hands into his coat pockets and fumble his elbows in circles. Still demanded my attention.

"Stop that! I have a gun!"

"You do not!" Backing away more now, I yelled. (I did? This I can't believe.)

He came back at me, again grabbing on.

"Stop that yelling! Come back here!"

"Hellllllllllllp!"

Two more swift whacks with the duck head to his arm, and I pulled away. Other voices asserted themselves in the distance behind me. Bad foot or not, I sprinted towards Tremont Street, to the relative safety of the traffic and the pedestrians coming out of the movie theater. He didn't follow, but called after me to rectify this wrong--as if I had embarassed him by creating a scene. For the next 30 seconds as I stood at the curb, heart about to come out of my chest, I could hear it "come back! hey! come back here!"

I crossed the street and hailed a taxi. I thanked my umbrella. Thanked God. And cursed my boldness.