Tap Tap

No heads nod during our discussions. Nobody hides, cowers. Every once in a while we hit someone’s tender spot. Tears come, fists bang on desks. There can be long silences. We realize we are our own guinea pigs, learning and teaching at the same time.

Class is usually over at 9 p.m., but our discussion on manic depression keeps us riveted until 9:30. Dr. Taylor’s husband is fidgeting on the wooden bench in the lobby. ‘Let’s go , Lady.’ They don’t even look at each other, simply head to the glass/brass door and go.

We four ladies live on campus but in different quads. My place is furthest from psych class. It’s a pretty walk with weeping willows crying over the old iron benches. Lamp lights era 1930 pretend to be gas burners. Even between classes a serenity lets the dandelions come up.

Now I am alone and walk a little faster, not afraid but alert and cautious. In my purse I have pepper spray and a shrill whistle on a lanyard. My own footsteps sound as if I am walking on concrete, but the paths are cobblestone. My ears perk up. There are steps besides mine. I stop, look around, see no one. As soon as I take a step I hear one echo. My heart races. In a hurry to open my purse, it drops on the path. Footsteps hurry towards me. Danger is closing in. Running would be useless. Adrenalin is pouring out of my ears. I throw myself forward, try to cover my purse, touch only the strap. I almost die of fright as another hand has it.

I know I am supposed to scream my head off but my throat is drier than the Gobi, The hand yanks my purse from under my shoulder. Psych I, am I going to be raped, killed, stay calm. Some inner hidden strength oils my vocal cords. Without looking at my assailant, I yell,’ Get away from me, Mister, or I’ll kick you in your nuts!’ An angel replies, ‘Don’t do that Ms. Gordon. Take my hand. I’ll help you up.’ He leads me to a bench and I am able to clearly see his face. Embarrassment must be making me look rosy and healthy. All I can ask is, ‘Joe, why don’t you oil the squeaky door in Psyche?’

Joe walks me to my door, tips his tattered cap, puts his hand under his chin and flaps it, ‘ I’ll take care of that Monday. You take care of you. Goodnite.’