The New Sense

Sunday, May 12, 2002

Boy, what a day! It couldn't have been more relaxed until about 2.30, when we went out for a stroll. Sometimes B— seems so distracted. I know he's a guy and everything, but I say things to him and he's just completely spaced out, as though his ears are closed or something.
So, we were walking up St-Laurent. It was a bit chilly and overcast. B— said it felt like Vancouver. He stopped in front of the fruit and veg store and picked up a squash from a pile outside. It was one of those knobbly ones, pale yellow, about five inches across. He closed his eyes and started fondling it. I laughed — it was almost sexual.
"I love things that are this size," he said, very seriously.
"What do you mean?"
"You know — things that you can comfortably hold in one hand."
"What kind of things?"
"Things about this big — I just said that."
"Anything?"
"Yes — there should be a word for that category, like blue things or spiky things. I would call it 'handy things' but handy already means something else."
"You're weird."
"But things that size are… just right, you know."
"Is this a breast thing?"
"Maybe."
He's funny. A true original. We turned onto Napoleon ("How many cities have streets named after war-loving imperialistic dictators?" asked B— .) Just before Laval he grabbed my arm.
"Wait!" he said and closed his eyes. He let go of my arm and walked very slowly towards a nondescript apartment building. He tried the door and it opened.
"What are you doing?"
He still had his eyes closed, and was moving, almost swaying from side to side, as though he was on a boat. Then suddenly he opened his eyes and started to run up the interior stairway.
"B— !" I yelled and ran after him. I honestly thought he'd gone nuts.
He didn't stop at the top of the stairs, just burst right through the door. I heard him shout, "Get away from her," and a woman yell something. I raced up the stairs and through the door. B— was on the floor, wrestling with a guy who's pants were around his ankles. There was a bed to the left where a girl in here twenties was clutching a pillow, sobbing. B— definitely had the upper hand, probably because the guy couldn't move his legs much, though he looked broader-shouldered than B— . Everything was happening so fast and so slowly. I knew I wasn't going to be able to help B— much with the guy, so I asked the girl where the phone was. She pointed to the table next to the bed. I went over and dialled 911.
B— was on top of the guy, but having a lot of difficulty holding him down. He was wriggling like a fish and swearing like crazy in French. I didn't know what the hell to do. I've never been I a situation like this. All I know is what I've seen in movies. When something like this happens the woman gets a skillet from the kitchen and whacks the bad guy on the head at an opportune moment. So I finished my 911 call and ran to the kitchen. I got the biggest skillet out of the cupboard and went back to the struggle. The whole apartment was one big room anyway, apart from the bathroom. The girl was still whimpering on the bed, but suddenly the bad guy managed to flip B— over and pulled his fist back to punch him. I don't think he even noticed me as I swung the skillet.
It's probably a good thing, from the manslaughter perspective, that I caught his fist before his head. The guy gave a huge yowl and rolled over in a fetal position, clutching his fist to his stomach, moaning really loudly. B— got to his feet and took the skillet out of my hands, holding it ready for another swipe if the guy got up. Even if we hadn't heard the siren at that moment I don't think it would have been necessary. The guy was in tears. I must have smashed his knuckles or something, never mind the blow to the side of his head.
As I heard the police running up the stairs I had the presence of mind to grab the skillet back off B— . You never know what people might think. As it was, the first cop shoved B— against the wall with his arm pinned behind his back. The second looked around suspiciously, with his hand on his gun.
"Officer, it's him," I said, pointing to the bawling bad guy.
"What happened?" asked the cop.
"He tried to rape me," said the girl, pointing at the bad guy.
The cop hauled the would-be rapist to his feet and shoved him against another wall.
"And this guy?" asked the cop who was holding B— .
"He saved her," I said.
"Did he?"
(This was all in French.)
"Yes," she nodded, "Let him go."
The cops handcuffed the bad guy (causing more bawling in pain) and told us we'd have to come down to the station to make statements. I could see from B—'s face that he wasn't very keen on doing that.
The girl got up from the bed. It was at that point that I saw the chisel amongst the ruffled-up bedclothes. My stomach started to go funny. I looked around, saw the opened toolbox on the kitchen table, and put two and two together. B— could have been killed. The girl went over to B— , saying "Merci, merci," and put her arms around his neck. B— and the cop next to him looked kind of embarrassed. She looked like a really nice girl. Just up from the country or something. Her blouse was half torn off, but her skirt appeared to be in one piece. The cop pulled her away from B— gently and told her to put on some more clothes so she could go to the station. The other cop was talking into his radio the whole time.
A couple of minutes later a policewoman appeared and went over to the girl, putting her arm round her shoulders. The first two cops led the guy away. I never saw him after that. B— and I followed the policewoman and the girl into the copmobile (one of those caravan-style police cars. Are they for police families? A policeman, policewoman and two cadets?)
There then followed three hours of waiting around, drinking really bad coffee and making our statements. I already knew what B— was going to tell them, so I said the same thing. I said that he had heard a scream and had run up the stairs, though I know that he didn't. There was no way he heard anything. She was much too terrified to make a noise. I saw her again as we were leaving. She had calmed down a lot and said thank you again. I told her that B— didn't understand French because he was from BC.
B— seemed pretty shaken up by the whole thing, so I made a conscious decision not to ask him about how he knew what was going on in the apartment from street level. Instead we grabbed a poutine on the way back. He thought it was hilarious. He said that it was impossible that something like poutine could have been invented out West.
When we got back he crashed into bed pretty fast. I still feel wired from this afternoon.

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posted by Sara