The Burgundy Buick

I was driving home through Wooster Street in an October afternoon -- warm and sunny. While stopping at the second intersection of Wooster, I noticed a brand new Saturn Sky Roadster, with its shinny Bluestone color and the dark tinted windows, stopped beside my green Durango. When the light turned green and my Sky Roadster flew by, I told myself that my first “big fat” paycheck would belong to General Motor when I graduate in 2007.

As the “Sky” disappearing from my sight, I turned my head to the left and saw an older burgundy Buick with peeling-off paint on its roof and hood. Inside the Buick, three young men looked to their right and seemed to be talking, or yelling at someone or something (I was not sure since I had my windows up). One guy had his hand in the air making some gestures I did not understand and another one was pointing in my direction. “Are they talking to me?” I wondered; however, I followed the advice from my friends and relatives–“ignore them and keep your distance.” As we drove through the green light at the third intersection, the Buick over-took and pulled in front of me. Why didn’t they just turn on their turning signal? I thought. That way I would know they wanted to get in front of me.

As I drove half way between the third and the fourth intersection on Wooster, the stop light in front of us, the one at Wooster and Third Street, turned red. A red pickup truck and a white Honda Accord stopped at the light. The Buick was approaching the Accord -- the last vehicle inline. Suddenly, the Buick stopped in the middle of the road and left a long distance between the front of the Buick and the back of the Accord – almost enough space for two vehicles. The Buick’s driver raised his arm and pointed his fingers straight out of the window, and then aimed back, which was the direction where I was approaching. I was watching these puzzling actions with interest as I was driving closer.

All of a sudden, the Buick’s back door opened and a young man got out and walked toward the back of the car. I tried to slow down and leave plenty of space between us. Maybe he needed something from the trunk, I thought, amused by the way people do things sometimes. He was wearing a denim jacket and baggy jeans with his hands in his pockets. He kept walking and passed the back of the Buick. Is he coming towards me? I was alarmed.

I checked my doors and made sure they were locked. Remembering many stories I have heard on the news and from friends or relatives, I started to feel scared. I remembered the insurance fraud cases that ABC broadcasted on 20/20. Diane Sawyer explained how criminals positioned one car in front of the intended victim and another behind it. The second car would hit the back of the victim’s vehicle at some “ideal” moment and push it into the car in front; the second car would then speed away and leave the victim to deal with the accident and pay for the damage, which included, in many cases, huge “alleged” medical bills. I realized that I was in the perfect position for that kind of scam. There I was, in the middle of three lanes of stopping vehicles, waiting for a traffic light to change; I would have nowhere to go if someone hit my vehicle from the rear.

My mind was racing--I thought of another incident that happened in Myrtle Beach a few years ago. A local woman drove her SUV in heavy traffic on highway 17 and stop for a traffic light. A man got out of a car that was stopped in front of her and approached her vehicle. He grabbed the driver side door handle and told her to move over, that he was going to carjack her. She pulled out a 9mm pistol and shot him. While investigating the shooting, the police learned that the woman was returning home from her weekly gunfire practice at the nearby shooting range. At the same time, the police also discovered the man’s identity and his criminal records, which included multiple kidnapping and rape charges.

Kidnapping and rape, I was terrified by these stories rushed out from my memory. I fumbled through my purse and the glove box -- the only weapon I found was a nail-clipper. I regretted that I had disregarded the comment from one of my relatives whom told me to sign up for shooting practice lessons and purchase a handgun for self-protection. I was amused at the time--I came from a country where the police force did not provide guns for every police officer. I probably would hurt myself first if I carried a gun, I had thought to myself.

Now I wished I had taken her advice in this dangerous traffic-waiting moment. I checked all four doors again and hoped the man would not be able to enter; however, he could shoot me if he had a gun and if I refused to open the door. I needed bulletproof windows or, indeed, a handgun, I thought. He was getting closer and closer and I could see his eyes and his devilish smirk. As he approached my vehicle, I grabbed my purse and held onto it. I would slam my purse on his gun if he tried to use it on me – the best defense plan I came up at the moment. I promised myself that I would spend that first “big fat” paycheck on a handgun if I survived this time.

He stopped in front of my Durango about ten feet away, turned left, walked between two cars in the left lane, crossed the street, and walked into the parking lot of the Burger King on the left side of Wooster Street. He waved to his friends before entering the restaurant with that “smirk” on the corner of his eyes.

The light turned green and the burgundy Buick sped away. I should never get a gun, I thought, because I could kill an innocent man for some self-created fear. A Sky Roaster would serve me much better than a handgun, I reminded myself as I drove on.