Like to Have a Gun Pointed at Your Head

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The summer I was 10 years old, I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark over 20 times in the theatre. From that point on, I had this fantasy that when I was an adult, I would react to danger like my hero, Indiana Jones–brave, thinking on my feet, and maybe, just maybe, a self-aware one-liner when all was said and done.

Many years later, when I was an adult living in Chicago, I arrived home at 4 a.m. after being out of town for two weeks. The street was quiet and there wasn’t another person anywhere to be seen. As the cabbie drove off, I realized too late that I only had my backdoor keys with me, which meant I had to walk around the building, through the alley, and all the way to the back courtyard.

As I began this long trek, annoyed at myself for bringing the wrong keys, a car approached slowly from the other side of the street. Upon seeing me, it stopped abruptly, right in front of the entrance to the alley.

I stopped walking. This didn’t feel right. The car was dark and the windows were tinted, but I would have sworn that whoever was in the car was staring at me. Seconds passed, then the driver gunned it, and whipped the car into the alley ahead of me.

I was in danger; I could feel it. There was no denying it. It felt like they were lions in wait and I was a gazelle carrying too much luggage.

I had one option–I had to beat them to the gate.

If this were a movie, this would be where the John Williams instrumental would begin. I held the key to the gate in my right hand, the suitcase in my left. I took a deep breath, bent my knees, and without giving myself any opportunity to talk myself out of it, I dashed into the alley, sprinting as fast as a man awkwardly carrying a not-very-well-distributed 50 pounds of luggage could run.

I reached the gate, dropped the suitcase, put the key in the lock … but it wouldn’t turn. I didn’t look in the direction of the car; I kept my eyes on the lock, which was old and you had to find the exact sweet spot before it would engage.

I jiggled the key … until … finally, success! This delay cost me valuable seconds. I heard a car door slam.

I threw all my belongings into the courtyard. I could hear footsteps quickly approaching from my left. Damn, I was right, they were after me. An involuntary shiver shot from my feet to my head. Without looking, I jumped inside, and quickly pulled the gate toward me. As it was about to close, a shoe blocked the path. Then a large man grabbed the gate, flung it open, shoved me into a dark corner, and thrust a gun into my side.

Our transaction began immediately and in the most clichéd way possible. “Gimme your (EXPLETIVE) money!” he demanded.

I was out of breath and scared out of my mind, but for whatever reason, outwardly I was focused and coolheaded. I touched my back pocket. Not there. “I don’t have my wallet on me,” I said calmly. I pointed to the backpack on the ground. “It’s in my bag.”

“Get it,” he said, gesturing with his gun-free hand at the backpack.

I nodded and walked slowly to my bag, never taking my eyes off him or the gun. I crouched down to my knees, retrieved my wallet, and pulled out my cash–$34 in ones and fives, mostly ones. He looked satisfied at the amount of bills, and he shoved the wad in his front pocket.

“Lie down on the ground,” he demanded.

This seemed like a bad idea. I pictured him shooting me in the back of the head–my death forever being described as “execution style”.  All my instinct told me not to do this, and before I even realized what I was doing, I responded, “Nope.”

This shocked him. He trained the gun at my chest, and growled, “Lie down on the ground! Now!”

At this moment, an adrenaline spike gave me a level of bravery/stupidity that I had never experienced before or since.

“Would you?” I blurted, maintaining eye contact. “Seriously, if you were in my position, would you lie down on the ground?” I didn’t know where this was going; I was making this up as I went. “I’ll compromise–I’ll stay on my knees. That’s fair, right? I will not move, I promise.”

He either believed my sincerity or that logic made sense to him. Without saying another word, he lowered the gun, turned around, and ran out of the gate.

Keeping my word, I sat there, not moving, until I heard the car drive off. I don’t know why I did what I did next, but as I was standing up–out loud, to no one–I said, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

I made my way to the second floor apartment, feeling invincible, energized, and maybe just a little too cocky. I couldn’t believe what just happened, but more importantly, I couldn’t believe that I’d gotten away with it. I’d stood my ground to a mugger, exhibited traits of bravery, and even dished out a self-aware one-liner–just like Indiana Jones.

However, the euphoria was short-lived. I walked into my kitchen, and upon feeling the safety and familiarity of the room, the adrenaline quickly lost its effects. I started to replay the last few minutes in my head.

Did I really just talk back to a guy with a gun? That was unbelievably stupid! This isn’t some goddamn movie; he could have killed me!

I quickly went from fear of the known to frightened about the unknown, the “what could have happened.” My head began to swim. I dropped my bags. My hands and knees began to shake uncontrollably, and for the first (and only) time in my life, I fainted. The last thing I remember before crumbling to the ground was letting out a bloodcurdling scream.

I wonder if this was what it was like for Indiana Jones. Yes, yes, I know, he’s fictional. But assuming he wasn’t, assuming he was a flesh-and-blood person who existed in the world, how would he deal with the emotional aftermath? Because he must have had that, right? He may have been brave in the moment, but later that night, when he was alone with his thoughts and memories of all those near-death experiences, did he have breakdowns? Did he crumble into a ball, shivering uncontrollably, as he realized just how close he’d come to dying yet again?

If you think of it that way, I really was like Indiana Jones after all; occasionally brave in the moment, and fainting with fear the moment he’s back in the safety of his apartment. Or if I’m not and I’m just fooling myself, maybe I’m better off for it. Guys like Indiana Jones have a funny way of getting shot, trampled, or burned alive by Nazis. I love a good one-liner as much as the next guy, but I also want to see old age.

So long, Indiana Jones. It was fun while it lasted.

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Like to Have a Gun Pointed at Your Head