I got a tremendous fright this morning. I blame Julia Child.
Yesterday my dear husband gave me her seminal tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It is quite evident that Mrs. Child doubled as an agent: “You must plunge the knife into the center without a second thought … Do not be afraid to jerk the pan violently … Immediately begin jerking the pan vigorously — you must have the courage to be rough … Every woman should have a blowtorch … Inflict blows onto the handle of the pan with your right fist.” My mettle was up, ready to do something dangerous, such as make an omelette.
First, However
First, however, I ran out quickly to pick up someone whose ride had bailed after an overnight shift. It was a rainy, dreary morning. The skies were grey, the streets grey, dirty, depressed. The concrete buildings were grey, crumbling, and sooty. It was too sad to even sport graffiti. The only color in sight was the half-lit neon “open” sign one lot down and a crushed Dunkin’ Donuts cup in the parking lot, with a pink straw sticking out of one end. Even the formerly white background of the cup was greyed with rain and tire tracks.
The parking lot undulated, patched over and over again. A large puddle formed by the entrance, where the asphalt had entirely worn away.
The emptiness bothered me. Where was my pick-up? She did not answer her phone. I hesitated. I called again. This time, a little voice picked up. “Hello?” I recognized the voice. “This is Mrs. Smith, can I talk to your Mama?” The reply came lisping back. “She at work. She’s coming soon.” Great, “coming soon” meant my picking her up, but I could neither see her, nor reach her.
I circled the lot, eyeing the different doors. Which was the space she was cleaning this time? I drove around the back, and saw that one of the doors was open, and I could hear sounds from inside. Voices calling, banging, scraping.
Relieved, I thought I had found her. Surely, she would be out in a moment.
It Looked Even Worse
The area looked even worse in the back. Garbage hung in the trees. Refuse piled up against the back fence, and mounds of debris poured against walls that looked too old and frail to still be in service. Everything smelled damp, rotten, and miserable. I positioned the car in such a way that a high wall was behind me, I could clearly see the open door and the way to the front parking lot, and I had a good view of the terrain in front of me.
I waited. As I waited, I thought back on Julia Child. What a dichotomy, reading about the finest niceties of French cuisine, and then viewing the back end of the piteous back alleys of New Jersey’s armpit within 20 minutes. I chuckled, thinking about the vigorous tone — plunging knives, beating fists, rough shaking. Two different worlds that use the same terms, two markedly different outcomes.
By now I had waited another 20 minutes, and I was getting a bit irritated. Surely, she knew I was outside? I got out of the car, and walked towards the door, which was now closed. I banged on the door, and looked in vain for a bell. As I banged, I thought about the pan Julia Child had instructed to pound at a 20 degree angle.
Complete silence. I banged again, and called my ride’s name. Finally, I saw what looked like a bell, and I reached for it, thinking “plunge in the knife fearlessly”. I heard a slight sound behind me, then heard a low, soft gentle voice ask, “Ten minute massage?”
The Carbon Copy Face
As a woman, I fully understand my disadvantages, and that in my dresses I look even more vulnerable. However, I am also not that terrible at self-defense, and I have been in many dangerous situations. I have put pieces of bodies into bags and labeled them without names. I have been held up, and I have lived through some rough times. I’m not usually afraid. But when I turned around, I had a moment of the greatest fear in my life.
I looked directly into the face of M. An M with very yellow hair.
M is a German thriller from the twenties in which Peter Lorre played a child murderer, called M, who preyed on young girls. When I first saw it as a child, the film — aided and abetted by the masterful use of Grieg — absolutely terrified me. The face of that murderer haunted my sleep, and it would take twenty years before I could hear “Hall of the Mountain King” as it was meant to be heard, without shudders running down my spine.
When I turned around, I looked directly at a face which seemed a carbon copy, but with neon yellow dyed hair. The same slicked down, thin, straight hair. The same eyes … my brain screamed, “child murderer!” The mouth opened and repeated, “Ten minute massage?”
I gathered my wits, forced myself to understand that this was not M, M was a character in a film, and I needed to get out of there.
Out of There
“Absolutely not, thank you. Where is S…?”
He shrugged slowly, smiled slowly, turned away slowly. He even moved like M.
I walked quickly to my car at an angle so as to keep M in my line of sight. While keeping one hand on my phone in open view, with the other, I leaned on the horn. After almost thirty seconds of this noise, my ride suddenly emerged from a completely different door and came scurrying towards me. She jumped into the passenger side, and I got in on my side, quickly locking the doors.
“I’m so sorry, I….” I interrupted her. “Who is that man?” She looked. “Oh, that’s Mike. Did he bother you? Stay away from him.”
As I got the car and us out of that hole of darkness, I thought, “It was M after all!”
I blame Julia Child.
Peach Smith is a Catholic, a wife, a mother and a Classical educator who teaches at Koinonia and Sacred Heart Academies in New Jersey.
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