I remember the worst night of my life so vividly that I could direct the live action movie, should anyone ever give enough of a crap to watch it. It was only two years ago, back when I was younger, and dumber. I thought I could handle anything. What an idiot I was...
I turned the ignition key again and the iconic "Rrrr-rrr-rr" echoed through the deserted, lamp-lit streets. There was no sense trying again. I was stuck. It was two in the morning, on a frozen Tuesday night, in an unfamiliar part of town with a broken down car. Probably a busted alternator. I pounded the steering wheel for a bit to make myself feel better, then sniffed up my tears, and exited the car for the first house with lights on.
Mustering all my courage, trying not to think of what could go wrong, I rapped my knuckles on the brown, standard-issue door of the house at 10837- 55th avenue(So the chipper brass numbers showed, the police report would indicate, later, that this was inaccurate). After a few minutes filled with bizzare and suspect thumps, it swung open to reveal a big man in loose jeans and a sweatshirt.
"What?" He had terrible breath, reeking of booze. I noticed his mouth was wet.
"Hi. Um." I could feel my hands hide in my sweater- a nervous reflex of mine, "I'm so sorry. My car's dead and I need to get home, can I borrow your phone?"
He took his time scanning me up and down, and I knew what he saw; Shortish, slender, brown-haired, twenty-something college-chick, probably just off a late night study session. I fiddled with my hair. I hate when people stare at me.
He grunted a "Yah. Sure." and gestured to a cream rotary phone on a side table. It was close enough to the door that I figured I'd be fine should anything happen. I mean, I could run fast, right? Right?
I could feel him moving around as I made my call; He was big. 'Roid-monkey big. It was at this point that I started to doubt that this was a good idea. I relayed my name, address, and car details steadily, but my hands shook as I hung up the receiver.
He came up behind me, I could feel the floor flex through my heels, and put his hand on my shoulder, so heavy it weighed me down, asking, "How about a drink while you wait?"
I regret my answer. During my time in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think about how stupid I had been, and cursed myself for casually answering,
We sat at his kitchen table, snorking back whiskey, in view of the living room window, waiting for the truck to arrive. After a few shots (few? maybe several...) he got up and stood next to my chair, rubbing his hands on his visibly stained shirt.
"Well, I think that's enough for you..."
He wrapped his hands around my bicep, tried to pick me out of my seat, but I resisted. I just needed to wait until I saw the truck. His face reddened and he tried to jerk on my elbow, nearly dislocating it, but as he yanked I saw the truck out of the side of my vision. He had size on me but I knew he'd had a few and as he reached for my shirt, I stood up and drove the side of my firm hand into his neck in a chop. He flinched and his eyes bulged; "What th?" he began, but I was in full flight now, ramming my knee into his solar plexus. It forced the wind out of him and he went down like a sack of shit while I whipped out my cuffs.
"Michael Botada? You're wanted for crimes including grand theft larceny and arson."
I shackled his beefy wrists behind his back, too tightly for him to even wiggle, since I knew his type; they liked fighting, and if he got up, he'd have his weight over me and I wouldn't even have surprise anymore. His face grew crimson as he cussed at me, spouting entrapment and false arrest. I love these bottom-barrel, legal-knowledged types. I drove my boot into his knee.
"You little bitch! This is police brutality! I'll sue your badge off for this!"
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Oh I ain't the 5-0, boyo. I'm a gen-u-ine bounty hunter, and your name is 'Mortgage Payment' now. So shut up." I walked over his body, out the front door, where my team was waiting in the blue truck I had called for.
"Hey guys. Got 'im."
They went to work "taggin" him to bring in for payment, and I enjoyed a quiet smoke outside. He was the biggest catch I'd netted in my professional career that far. He brought quite a fair amount of prestige too; I was honored with the national hunter's award that chirstmas.
Oh, why was it the worst night of my life? I had a little more whiskey then I'd care to admit, and broke my leg on a hidden pothole ten minutes later; had to spend 4 months in rehab for the compound fracture, and missed my sister's wedding. Life's funny, ain't it?