The day started off well enough, but it rapidly got out of hand. It all started when my group therapy session, 'Taking Charge Of Your Life', went overtime by an hour. Normally, the facilitator, Herman Urnstwile, is good about keeping us on time, but it all went to hell when Shelia and Tammy blew up on each other.
I'm not even sure what set them off since I was struggling to stay awake, a combination of only six hours sleep and a subject matter that didn't really hold my interest. Bottom line, they were both extremely mad at each other and the scenario was starting to resemble a trashy talk show, complete with high pitched voices that I seemed to be the only one who couldn't decipher.
The whole group was busy rooting for one side or the other as it seemed both women were ready to resort to fisticuffs. It was starting to seem like I was the only sane one left in the room.
"Mimsy, cool it!" Mister Urnstwile cuts through the din and steps into the middle.
The whole room falls silent, before erupting with laughter. Who knew a reference to a movie we all watched as a group would be enough to defuse the situation?
After which, the two women profusely apologized to one another as they shed tears on each other's shoulders. All in all, it's an exhilarating experience, but one that placed me an hour further into my day, which meant I only had sixty minutes to eat lunch before I had to work. Not a big deal, all things considered, but the pressure it placed upon me did not help my digestion any.
The whole ordeal is now in the past and I'm making my way to my car. I click the unlock button on the key fob as I nervously check the time which indicates I only have thirty minutes before I have to be at my place of work. A miniature panic attack starts to take hold as I cross the parking lot and hop into my vehicle.
I take a few moments to stare at myself in the rearview mirror as I will myself to be calm. I can feel it working. I turn over the engine and am just about to shift into reverse when the passenger door opens and a woman slides into the seat. She shuts the door and cautiously looks about, before bombarding me a stream of words that I cannot understand.
It sounds like Spanish, if a plethora of children's programming is anything to go by, but it sounds wrong and I can't catch any key words or phrases like I usually do. In the midst of her indiscernible diatribe she sets a bright white, miniature suitcase on the console between the seats emblazoned with a red, flammability sticker and the letters D-I-N-A-X-F-O.
Of all the new information that my mind is being bombarded with, the exact meaning behind the letters take precedence. Is it a word? And if so, how's it pronounced? Or do the capital letters mean it's an acronym or abbreviation? Whatever it is, the hazard emblem warns of danger when interacting with the contents.
"Look lady," I cut into the deluge of information the strange woman is trying to impart as I turn to face her. "I hate to be a buzzkill, but I have no idea what you're trying to say. Besides, I have got to be going, so you'll have to solicit someone else's attention. Preferably one who can speak your language, whatever it is." I point a finger to the door she entered to emphasize my point.
She isn't having it and after a few moments of stunned silence, continues to spew forth her words despite my lack of recognition. And it's at this point that I recall one of the lessons imparted by my group, the power of no and its application so as to instill a degree of respect and how it must be exercised or else it's difficult to apply.
So, I opt to say nothing more and just point with all the more intensity. A gesture she is forced to accept, either that or point a gun in my face. The latter is what she chooses. My hands shoot to the ceiling and scrape against the interior, a minor pain that lodges itself in the corner of my brain, to be visited later. If there is a later. With her free hand she taps the steering wheel, indicating she wants me to drive.
"Where?" I ask in a small voice while staying plenty visible.
I'm not sure if she can understand me, as her eyes seem full of confusion, but several more frantic slaps against the steering wheel tells me I had better start moving and now.
I bring my hands down, reverse out of the parking space and pull onto the main thoroughfare. In the meantime, I catch my abductor fiddling with her cellphone before setting it in the recess formed in the dashboard, just above the silent radio.
"In one hundred feet turn left," a very kind woman inside the device chimes in, speaking in clear English as a clear map of the area flashes on the screen.
It takes me a moment to realize that a machine is talking to me, as I half expected to find my captor smiling at me with a grin that says, "I know something you don't." But a sideways glance reveals a very frightened woman who keeps staring every which direction and a gun that keeps shaking about.
I follow the directions given to me by the machine as I keep an eye trained on the deadly contraption. I take the turn and notice her staring out the passenger window, her attention nowhere near her weapon. I wait until the barrel is pointed away from me before sweeping it up with my free hand.
"Aha!" I declare out loud as my eyes take in the SUV bearing down on my little car from the passenger side.
There's a tremendous boom and my poor, little vehicle is rocked to the core. Luckily, I have my seatbelt on. So aside from minor whiplash I'm fine. I look to my forced passenger. She's holding her arm, but I don't see any outward sign of damage.
That's when I remember the gun in my hand, which I had managed to hold onto. Only there's nothing more than a handle, the rest is lying on the floor in pieces, floating in a small puddle of water. A squirt gun?! She abducted me with a squirt gun?! I am beyond furious and ready to unleash my anger on her, but then I remember about the car that not only hit us, but is continuing to push us off the street and into a nearby alley.
But how they are able to manage this and not get hit by oncoming traffic is beyond my understanding. I look in the other direction and find a wall which we sandwiched up against before the offending vehicle backs off some. A pair of people dismount the SUV with the smashed in front. One man, one woman, each with a firearm in hand, pointed at us.
"Out...now!" are just two of the words spoken by the other woman that I can make out and they're definitely in Spanish. "...shoot you...Martina."
My would-be kidnapper kicks open the smashed up door, while holding one hand in the air, still holding the case. The other hanging limp. "Martinique...shoot me...out…" the injured woman speaks and only now do I realize she has an accent, which is what was throwing my ear.
The other woman stares at me. "Out, now," she commands in a loose grasp of English while pointing her gun at me.
I scramble out of the car using the still open passenger door. I put my hands in the air and hold perfectly still. And it's only now that I see the two women look very much alike. They may even be twins.
"...hand over...now…" Martinique demands, a hand gesturing to the case held aloft.
But Martina isn't having any of it. Having few options left to her, she hurls the sought after treasure against the ground with such force that it pops open, revealing a small capsule that flies into the air.
"No…" Martinique screams and I'm sure she adds a few expletives, while she drops her gun and dives headlong onto the filthy asphalt and catches the vial before it has a chance to break. "...Martina...could have...thinking?"
The air fills with the sound of oncoming sirens. "Martinique," the man breaks in for the first time as he approaches. "Cops...now!"
The woman in question rises from the ground, brushes herself off and hurries back to her vehicle, but not before casting an evil glare upon the other woman. The vehicle hurries back and out, just as the cop cars close in. I have so many questions, but likely there will be no answers.
Martina looks to me as the cops sweep through the narrow accessway. "Diluted, Insoluble, Narcotic, Aromatic, Exfoliating, Finnish, Ointment," are the only English words she speaks and looks me in the eye.
My brain scrambles to understand as best it can, while I'm being pressed up against the wall by a thoroughly kitted out officer of the law. The kind that isn't called out of the blue, but is standing at the ready.
The only words I connect are: aromatic, exfoliating and ointment. Is the vial some kind of beauty agent? Did I nearly get killed and threatened with being shot over a beauty product? I silently fume as my mind grapples with the insane situation, as both I and Martina are shackled to the inside of a large armored truck and driven off. All the while I wonder, what my boss must be thinking of my unexplained absence, which makes me smile.