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After the incident with the helicopter you might think things calmed down. Poor naive souls. This is the apartment of the flood, the pit bulls, and now, Claire de Loon. Once more our scene begins late at night, the inmates of San Simpson sound asleep, with visions of Broadway hits, best sellers, and guest appearances on L.A. Law dancing in their heads. An odd unidentifiable sound cuts through the dreams. Sound sleep turns to half sleep, then wide awake. Is it a dog in pain? The fan we keep on to drown out the small, irritating, inevitable noises of apartment living does not drown this out. The sound coalesces. "Help! Help!"
I am a good citizen. I pull myself out of bed, still groggy, groping in the closet for my jeans, my bathrobe. I stumble out of the bedroom, looking for the number of the apartment security service. I can't find it. Call the police, I tell Barb. Then I rush outside. I meet Claire, our new neighbor, at the top of the steps. She is hysterical.
"I've been stabbed!" Adrenalin begins to pump. Glands I didn't know I had begin to saturate my circulatory system with chemicals designed to deal with sabre tooth tigers, with wolf packs on the frozen tundra, with rental car agents slipping you a car that costs twice as much as the insurance will pay for. I am not equipped for this. I don't know how to deal with a woman who has been stabbed. My God, in the month since she moved in I haven't spoken more than six words to her.
Fortunately I am not left to face my terror alone. I have learned a valuable lesson. The time it takes for a man to rouse himself out of a deep sleep, pull on his jeans, and stumble outside is nearly constant. I am the first, but only by seconds. She is lucky, I am not all that stands between her and death from loss of blood. I see no blood gushing, but there is a red smear on her chest. I would look more closely, I would try to help, but she won't let me near her. She was attacked out in the alley she says, she has been a professional singer in Los Angeles for twenty-five years, she is worried about her car, a man in the alley pulled a knife on her, she has already been raped once, she has been a professional singer for twenty-five years, did she say she was a professional singer?
My glands and I escape to the relative safety of the alley. Barb has come out, she will take care of Claire, it is understandable , under the circumstances, that she wouldn't want to let a man near her. I charge into the alley. "Fuckers, get out of our alley!" I scream. "This is our home!" There is no one there, but I scream out of general principal. I scream to let the world know that I will not stand for stabbings and other general mayhem, not in my alley. To protect hearth and home my glands have propelled me into an alley where, moments earlier, I believe someone was stabbed. My glands don't understand about knives and guns.
The other men, following closely behind me, think of course, after my scream, that there is someone there. Charley has brought along a coat hanger to defend himself. I wish I had thought of that. All I have is the terry cloth belt from my robe. I suppose I could fend off an assailant with that, if pressed.
Claire's car is parked in what used to be the tool shed. Apparently she is a very paranoid woman. No one else has a parking space with a door that locks. How did she talk the manager into that I wonder? Charley plunges into the dark shed. He is braver than I. Considering the amount of time that has passed, and the general commotion, it is inconceivable that there is anyone there, but I have studied history, including military strategy. My glands are now quiet. If there is someone there, I think a siege is appropriate. We should encircle the door, consolidate our position, and wait for the police to bring up the siege engines.
Of course there is no one there. Charley's coat hanger remains untested in the field of battle. I go back upstairs. Claire is still there. She is trying to get her keys out to get into her apartment. She is still a professional singer. Barb is no where to be seen. Claire still won't let anybody near her. If she bled to death it would be her own fault. But there is no blood. She insists on going out to check her car. The parameds arrive and I direct them out to the alley. The police have also arrived. In keeping with the tradition of the night, Claire won't let them near her either. I don't go out to the alley to watch. I find Barb in the apartment. She is thoroughly disgusted. Later we hear stories from Kim, whose window is on the alley, that Claire had been out there talking with someone, then she spent half an hour out there talking to herself. The stories are confused. It is impossible to know what really happened. Do I believe that Claire was really stabbed? I don't know. She hasn't cried "Wolf!" since, but maybe she's satisfied knowing, in case she were ever really attacked, just how long it would take us to put on our pants and get out there to help her.
Gregg Writes
| 1989 | Besieged | Claire de Lune |
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| 1992 | Flood --- Riot --- Earthquake! |
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| 1993 | * Gregg and the Trail Bike * | A Stabbing | |
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| Under a Full Moon | Burt Rutan | I Meet a Bear | |
| 1994 | * 7.2! * | A Star Is Born | * My Car Is Stolen * |
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| 1995 | This Year I Flew Like A Bird |
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