At the ‘mat, the attendant was at the door again—dumbstruck like me. I shouted that she needed medical attention and he shouted back that the police had been called. The woman was moving around inside her car. The little girl, obviously worried, was screaming. Jogging over to her, I asked the woman not to leave because she needed medical attention.
Her thin frame backed out of the car and she turned to face me—with a hammer in her hand. I said, “NO! What is this?!” She shouted to someone in another language and they moved toward her car and retrieved the child. They were shouting back at her. Her gesture to them and to me said, I’m doing this.
I screamed, “No!” She went for the door of the ‘mat. The attendant stepped aside and watched her go. I shouted something like, “Get the f* out of there!” Men were leaving the ‘mat and I followed in after her, screaming.
What would you do? It’s Sunday. You, like your neighbors need to get clothes ready for the week ahead. Maybe you’ve got your kids with you. The family helps get the job done. All I could think about was the plethora of kids ahead of her. And she’s mad, bleeding, and armed.
I ran in after her pleading, chasing. “Don’t DO this! Do the RIGHT thing! Somebody please tell her for me, STOP her!” This chase took less than two minutes, tops. But all I saw were parents shuttling their children away from the melee. All I saw were men walking away from the zig-zag, bloody juggernaut between washers and dryers. All races, all creeds—no men ready to take a stand with a skinny, wounded woman. I was alone.
After my sprints with the hammer-wielding momma, we realized that her intended was not around. She made for the door. I kept pleading, begging her to give me the hammer. She exited the ‘mat. An old woman stood in front of her. I assume she was saying the same as me. The woman with the hammer paused and I reached, touched her shoulder, and took the hammer from her.
PREVIOUS PAGE
