Misadventures in the city
By Beth Connors-Manke
Ok, it turns out to be true: a lady isn’t safe on the streets on the north side. And so now I’ve bought some pepper spray.
I’ll start by saying that it’s hard to find pepper spray. It’s not at Rite Aid. I suspended my Wal-Mart boycott and looked there, thinking “if Wal-Mart sells guns sometimes, surely they’ll have pepper spray.” Wrong. Not at Lowe’s either. Finally, I came upon my weapon at Meijer’s, which even stocks it in breast-cancer pink.
I haven’t carried pepper spray in years because it’s an awkward weapon. First off, you have to dig in your purse for it or isolate it from the jingle-jangle mess of your keys. Second, when do you pull it out, and how do you scare someone with it?
Criminal: Hey lady, your ugly purse or your life.
Beth: It’s not a purse, it’s my BAG. There’s a difference. A purse you carry on your shoulder. A bag you carry with the strap across your chest so you look more athletic and a little bit indie. This way, my hands are also free to pull my pepper spray. Yeah, that’s right, I’ve got PEPPER SPRAY, you scoundrel! That’s right, you’d better run!
I didn’t have my pepper spray at the time of my assault so it wasn’t in play, but clearly the only way to deter an assailant with pepper spray is to spray it in his eyes. Then you’ve got another problem: drift. Will the wind blow it back in your eyes? Do you close your eyes while you spray him? (This seems a flawed strategy.) Do you lick your fingertip and check wind direction, like a golfer, and then let loose on the jerk?
These are important considerations for me, as now I know just how likely I am to be hurt on the street by a stranger.
The Incident
Over the summer, I’ve been exploring new walking routes in my neighborhood. I walk down side streets and loop around the park. My theory is that you don’t really understand if a street is safe until you walk down it. Driving doesn’t give an accurate assessment because it isolates you, allowing you to feel simultaneously protected by your ability to speed away and scared of strangers outside your window. If you walk, you’re more vulnerable, but you see things more clearly—you have to more precisely discern friend from foe.
About a month ago, I’m almost finished with my walk as I come down a street of cute little brick and stone houses. I hear a dog bark. It’s across the street, without leash or owner. I look away from it, hoping it won’t get interested in me. That’s my street strategy: pretend to look away from aggressors or solicitors, which has worked pretty well with men on N. Limestone lately.
Not so with this little, muscular dog. He runs across the street, bristles up, barking and jumping forward at the same time. He’s getting closer.
Street strategy number two: talk in a calm, nonchalant way, but keep walking.
Beth: Hey doggie. Hey doggie. (Again, strategy works better with men than with this dog.)
Now he’s growling. I know I’m in trouble because no one else is on the street, and I know he wants to bite me. My only recourse is Jedi mind state: my senses sharpen, my mind becomes utterly clear, and I yell at him in as deep a voice as I’ve got.
He bites me.
It’s a quick bite, so I keep calmly walking before he can go in again, deeper this time.
When I get home, I’m pissed. I’ve spent the last year and half negotiating the hazards on N. Lime so I could make the streets safer for myself, and now someone’s damned dog has made my walks dangerous again. Seriously, I’d rather have a drunk yell profanity at me three times a week than have some lame-o’s loose dog take a big chunk out of my calf.
I told my neighbor about “the incident” and about my pepper spray purchase, making a sarcastic remark about the real dangers of the north side. She then regaled me with a scarier story. A while back, a loose pit bull had to be shot on “the ’wild” (that’s what we call our street) because it was attacking another woman’s dog. My friend was protector to the woman and her blood dog as a cop put the pit bull down. Thank goodness the blood-thirsty pit bull hadn’t gotten to a kid yet.
After I heard this story, I again reconsidered my Wal-Mart boycott. Maybe I need a gun. It’s dangerous around here.
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