This didn’t go well for me. Yes, I had lost seventy-five pounds, but I was not a lightweight. I worked out, was fit and did strength training. But Dom was six foot tall and all lean, compacted muscle. He had me on my back and was on top of me in no time.
This was not good.
It was then I began to panic. “Get off me!”
“Ava, you want it, I want it and I’m gonna f**kin’ take it.”
“No!” I shouted and bucked.
Then the door was thrown open and, to my utter disbelief, Mr. Kumar leaned in, pounding on Dom’s back with both his hands clenched together to do it.
I stared, momentarily stunned.
Mr. Kumar was a Middle Eastern guy who owned a corner store about a block and a half away from my house. Pre-weight loss, I went in there regularly to get provisions. I also went there to have a good old gossip with Mr. and Mrs. Kumar. They were good people, they struggled against the odds to keep their little corner store open and they looked after the neighborhood. Post-weight loss, since the corner store was stocked mostly with junk food, pop and smokes, I went in there just for the gossip and to buy diet soda and gum.
How Mr. Kumar was in Dom’s car was beyond me but I wanted to jump for joy.
“Unhand her!” Mr. Kumar shouted.
“What the f**k?” Dom muttered, letting me go and turning to Mr. Kumar.
I got over feeling stunned and we all started wrestling in the backseat and, because there wasn’t a lot of room, fell out the open door and started wrestling on the concrete. Mr. Kumar was a little guy and I guessed on the wrong side of his fifties and, I must repeat, Dom was strong. Dom took both of us on and seemed to be winning.
Dom shoved off Mr. Kumar, who went rolling, then tackled me. I was trying to get up and get some leverage on the situation when he did it. I felt my blouse tear at the neckline as I went down hard on my palms and Dom landed on top of me. I twisted underneath him and lifted my hands up and finally, after all these years, got the opportunity to scratch his face.
His head shot back as, with satisfaction (it might not be nice, but it was honest) I saw blood form on his cheek and he shouted, “Fuckin’ bitch!”
Mr. Kumar jumped on top of him. We wrestled more and I got out from under Dom. As he was trying to subdue Mr. Kumar, I gained my feet. I saw my opportunity, aimed a kick, missed where I was aiming and kicked him savagely in the gut.
Dom grunted and curled into himself.
I immediately grabbed Mr. Kumar’s hand and pulled him up. “Let’s go!”
We ran willy-nilly because I had no idea where I was going and Mr. Kumar was freaked way the hell out.
“My car’s over here,” Mr. Kumar finally said and we ran toward his old, faded-yellow Cadillac Seville.
We stopped at his car and Mr. Kumar fumbled for his keys. “You drive,” he said, his hands shaking, his hair and clothing looking exactly like he’d been wrestling with a strong Italian-American at least twenty years his junior. Mr. Kumar handed me the keys and automatically I took them.
“I can’t drive, I’ve been stun-gunned. You drive,” I handed him back the keys.
“I can’t drive, I’m shaky. We’ll get in an accident. You drive,” he handed me back the keys.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dom running toward us.
“Get in the car!” I shouted, going to the driver’s side.
We got in, locked our doors and belted up. Dom at my door trying to open it, I started the car (it took two goes but I did it) and we shot forward on a screech of tires.
We were in a parking garage, a weirdly vacant parking garage and I had no idea how to get out.
“Where’s the exit? I yelled, turning in a way that seemed to be taking us deeper into the garage.
“I don’t know. Let me think. I can’t think,” Mr. Kumar was still freaked out then he shouted, “There! It says exit! Go left.”
I went left.
“No, I mean right,” he said.