How to Rescue

A man drunkenly breaks into his estranged wife's home to talk about his feelings.

Skin is much smarter and more important than it looks. It may just seem like some acne-filled nightmare to an average teenager, or a papery, old covering to a nursing home resident. But, you see, skin is a bodily organ, one that mediates body temperature. It is also our one source of protection from the world around us, the one that swirls with microorganisms and macroorganisms that would like nothing better than to contaminate and destroy life. 

Protection is definitely something to be valued. By everyone. If you’re a sexist, you’d say that, because of their emotionally and physically fragile nature, it’s girls who need to feel protected, and that this is why men are emotionally and physically stronger than girls. This, in actuality, is bullshit. We all need protection. And we need protection from almost everything on the planet. Think about it. Even something as simple as a table can be a bane of human existence. 

Try this: it’s early in the morning, before God turns the lights on. You’re in need of a shot. You’re not quite sure whether you need it from a gun or a bottle, but getting a gun would be too hard at this hour, so you go for a bottle instead. However, the light switch in your kitchen is on the other side from the doorway, so here you are, in your underwear, stumbling forward looking for alcohol and light. Your brain makes a miscalculation, and instead of setting your foot down next to the table leg, your body’s autopilot slams your left movement pod into the heavy wooden object, greatly damaging the smallest thing on your foot, which you may call your pinky toe. 

You hate when this happens, don’t you? You wish, at that moment, no less pain and suffering on any person, place, or object on Earth than that table, still standing alone in the dark in its defiance. 

We need protection. From the table. From our own creations. From ourselves. 

* * * * 

Samantha is sleeping right now. Her eyes are closed gently, as though she was trying her hardest to stay awake for a while, but she finally fell victim to repose. Her skin is not yellow and tough yet, but give her a break. She’s only been smoking for five years now. In time, she’ll need the hole in her throat, the one that she’ll have to put her finger over whenever she wants to talk, like one of those little toys you get as a child, with phrases programmed into buttons on Potsie the Police Officer’s arm that, when pushed, make him say different phrases like “Just another day on the job,” or “Stop in the name of the law!” and “My emphysema is acting up today!” 

But she’s not there yet. She’s still young and spritely. Pretty, even. Her body is slowly pulsing with each inhale-exhale cycle, slow and monotonous like a swinging pendulum. 

Her sleep is deep and undisturbed. She’s dreaming now, probably something about falling into a black hole and being unable to save herself. The fourth stage of sleep has gripped Samantha’s body, and her brain, seeking the rest that it needs to function, has surrendered. It’s such a deep sleep that Samantha can’t notice anything else, like the dog howling across the street or the guy trying to force the lock on her front door. 

You’re not looking for money, sex, murder, or any of the other usual burglar or rapist stereotypes. You really just want to talk, but Samantha probably won’t see it that way. She’ll probably think, as she should, that the man currently breaking in to her home is an intruder. But when her intruder is you, her darling husband, everything changes. 

You skulk across the floor, quietly, because you’re not drunk enough to lose all self-control. On the other hand, you may be drunk enough to break into your estranged wife’s home in the middle of the night to have a little talk about relationships. So here you are, stepping forward first on toes and then rolling heels downward onto the carpet. 

The stench of alcohol, soaked deep into your bones already, is now beginning to permeate the room. The dog even smells it, but he’s too old to care. Canine does not alert woman of the intruder in her home. This is why he is man’s best friend. 

Finally, you reach the doorframe of the bedroom. The lights are off and there’s no moon out, so you really have to guess where all the furniture is. Remember: you’re drunk, so this is no small task. Feeling soft bedsheets grace your fingers, you stop. Your slowed mental process finally caves, and you call out, “Sam?” 

Instantly, the lights come on. And before they turn out again, you realize that she is not in her bed. Instead, she just turned your lights out with the butt of a rifle, delivered to the back of the head. Being a large man, you slump over and scream, “Ouch!” 

You drop to all fours, still trying to hold yourself up. Your head is throbbing, and there’s blood starting to soak into your hair and run down your neck. “What the hell?!” 

Samantha keeps the dangerous end of the rifle pointed at you, lying on the ground at her mercy. Her memory starts to click, and she lowers the rifle in amazement and confusion. 

“Ron?” 

You turn your head slightly and pull your eyes so far to the side that they hurt. “Jesus, Sam…what the hell you tryin-a do?” 

“I thought you were trying to break in.” 

“I did. Little late for that, sweetheart.” 

“Look, just shut up. Why the hell are you here?” 

“Just wanna talk.” 

“At three in the morning? That’s when you want to talk?” her voice still smacks of disbelief. 

“I was thinking. Had to tell you some stuff.” 

Samantha sighs and finally lowers the rifle to her side. You turn again and face the ground, letting your head go limp and propping on your arms. “For Chrissake, Sam, what the hell you doin with a rifle?” 

She says this last part very matter-of-factly. “I bought it after you left. For protection.” 

* * * * 

Now, let’s talk for a minute about home security. You’ve seen those commercials with all those blue numbers running over the walls of someone’s house? That really bad actor tries to break into the even worse actors’ home, hears the alarm, and the mom runs and gets her kids. Distraught, she gets a phone call. 

“Hello, home security hotline--is everything all right?”  An all-too eager voice answers. 

“No! Someone just tried to break in to my house!” 

“Ma’am, we’re sending help right away.” 

Then, it shows the lady buying the security system, and she gets protected by the Matrix. 

These things are helpful. That way, the bad actor doesn’t need to keep a rifle in the closet to whack any intruders. Let the police come and do that, because they’re allowed to. 

Sure, we all hear about self-defense. And in fact, in this country, every citizen has the right to arrest another citizen. In order to do this, the good person must detain the bad person in one location while someone else goes to get the proper authority. This is called citizen’s arrest, and we have the right, as Americans, to do it. 

But, you have to be careful. You see, if the good citizen injures the bad citizen while making a citizen’s arrest, the bad citizen can sue. And win. Even though they were the one robbing the store, stabbing someone, or what have you. 

It is indeed strange that we are so concerned with the rights of a criminal. I mean, I can understand that they’re still a human�"that much is obvious. But, to me, the instant you try to kill someone else, shouldn’t you lose part of your rights? 

In this country, anyone can sue anybody, and they’ll probably win (or at least get a fat settlement check). A shoplifter, being held during a citizen’s arrest, can sue the person holding them and win, because the person making the arrest has no authority. 

In this situation, the criminal is protected. The arresting force is not. 

* * * * 

“Well, I’d offer you a drink, but I think you beat me to the punch.” 

You chuckle. “Maybe.” 

“I, on the other hand, will need it at this hour.” Sam reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Southern Comfort. She doesn’t even bother with the glass. “So let me guess�"you were sitting down at Andy’s, drinking everything in sight, and you saw a girl.” 

You pick up the story. “She really reminded me of you, babe.” 

Samantha just laughs. “Don’t they always? If I had a shot for every girl you’ve seen that ‘reminded you of me,’ I’d be drunker than you right now.” She takes the cap off the bottle and sips gently. “So, what was her name?” 

“Sophie.” 

“Ah. Dear Sophie. What did she say to you?” 

“You’re getting ahead of me. Listen. Listen.” Your brown plaid shirt is blending into Sam’s couch, making you look like a growth�"something abnormal. 

“Oh, I can’t wait.” 

“Okay. You wanna know what she said?” 

Samantha’s eyes roll. “Yes, Ron, that’s why I just said I did.” 

“She said…she said that I looked lost.” 

Samantha’s head rocks back slightly, as if startled. “Lost? What the hell does that mean?” 

“Look, willya listen?” 

“God, Ron, just hurry up!” She leans forward quickly to emphasize her point, and her toes start tapping. 

“If you’re gonna be that, I’m leaving.” Your legs start to brace for standing, before Samantha interjects. 

“For God’s sake, Ron, you are not going to march your a*s into my house this early in the morning, wake me up, and then leave. Now sit down and talk to me.” 

You pause, trying to aggravate Sam, with your eyes looking at her sideways. “That’s more like it,” you say, like your acquiescence is a favor. 

Samantha chortled. “You’re a lunatic.” 

“Just because of Captain Morgan.” 

“Well ain’t that the truth."  She pauses, inhaling slowly.  "Now what did this girl say to you?” 

Leaning back, you throw your head back onto the top of the sofa cushion. Words come out:  “She said I looked lost. I didn’t know what she’s talking about, so I ask her. She says I look like I’m missing someone. So I tole her about you.” 

Samantha’s eyes close as she takes a breath, as if trying to bear some kind of burden. Her eyes cut down to the carpet, and her hair comes free from her ears. Brushing it back into place and sipping the bottle, she says, “So what’d you tell her?” 

“That I love you.” 

Samantha doesn’t believe you. “No, Ron. If you loved me, you’d quit.” 

“I couldn’t. But I can now.” 

“Oh, now you’re different? Why is that?” 

“Because I realized I drink ‘cause I don’t have you.” 

“That never stopped you before. You know, when we were still married?” 

“ARE married. Still.” You get a little more forceful, and the dog starts to stir. He stands on weakened legs and walks over to your feet, sniffing, obviously looking for something. When he sits down, he sits at your feet and stares a few miles across the carpet to Sam, sitting alone. 

“‘m serious, Sam. I can’t do it anymore. 'M drunk all the time, sleep in my car. Don’t wanna be like that.” 

“You’re probably just upset because you just got the papers.” 

At this point, you start to lose it. “The papers aren’t the issue!” Your head shoots up and you stare at your wife, and the house is totally still. You can see all the answers written on her head. 

She might want to call it off then and there. “Get out. You just lost your chance,” is what she wants to say. But she can’t do it this time, and you know it. 

You just broke into her house to tell her you love her. She can’t tell you to get out because she looks into your eyes, and sees them glassy and moist, true and truer. You are finally vulnerable to attack, and yet she can’t bring herself to do it, because of those little drops forming in your eyes. Tiny, small bits of liquid. 

It was supposed to be so easy, she must be saying to herself. She wasn’t supposed to feel like this. And she didn’t when it first happened. But now is not then. 

* * * * 

I believe that all things in life can be traced back to Jerry Seinfeld, a prophet who defined the human relationship, both sexual and non. One episode of his hit TV show features Jerry starting to cry over his fiancée, who has just broken up with him. Best friend and love interest Elaine also stands in the apartment, talking to him. 

As his eyes start to tear up, he rubs away the water. “What is this salty discharge?” he cries, emphatically. 

Elaine bends slightly to get a closer look. Realizing what’s happening, she remarks, “Oh my God, you’re crying.” 

“Oh, this is horrible,” Jerry goes on. “I care.” Cue the canned laughter. 

Honestly, after thinking about crying for a long time, probably enough to get a Ph. D. in it, I have reasoned that there is no reason for crying. We just do it as an emotional reaction. But it’s not just that reaction. You see, when we cry, we not only draw attention to ourselves, we draw something else. We draw sympathy. 

I cannot stress enough this simple fact�"if you’re not getting your way about something, just cry. That’s why babies have all power over adults. A parent, a real, tried-and-true, American parent, will try to soothe their small children when they cry. Then, inevitably, they will realize their attempt is fruitless, and they will collapse and give the child what they want. And don’t lie�"I see it happen all the time. 

Tears, seen by most people as a sign of vulnerability, are also the ultimate invincibility. 

* * * * 

You’re in the doorway now, and she’s propping her arm on the door, holding it open for you. The paint on the doorway�"some old, faded hunter green, has started to chip and peel. 

“Want me to repaint the door?” you ask, sincerely. 

“Right now? You got some paint in your pocket?” 

You start to chuckle. “No, crazy lady. No paint.” 

“I can take care of it.” 

“I miss you, Sam.” 

Her face falls. “I know. Just go to sleep. I’m amazed you made it here.” 

You try to give Samantha a hug. At first, she pushes you away, but she finally gives up and embraces you, gently and without emphasis. 

“I’m not leaving. I’m gonna sleep out here in my car.” 

She sighs, willingly defeated. “Fine. I don’t mind.” 

“I miss you, Sam.” 

“I know. You said that already.” 

“Love you.” 

She turns her head down, trying to look anywhere that’s not obstructed by your face, her eyes red and irritated. “Look. We’ll talk again when you’re not drunk, okay?” 

“Fine. Love you.” You let go of Samantha and walk out the door, down the sidewalk to your car. 

Samantha calls to you. “Ron?” You stop and pivot to face her. “Thanks for breaking into my house, a*****e. You know I’m going to need new locks now, right?” You smile and bow before her, then turn back and start walking. 

Samantha’s usually sharp eyes look dulled and smooth. She watches from the doorway to make sure that you find your keys okay, and you climb into the back seat. With your smart-a*s-ness still on display, you put a big thumb up in the window of the car. She finally shuts the door and puts her back against it. The bottle is still in her hand, so she takes another drink and pushes her foot against the door, propelling her forward toward the kitchen. She sets the bottle on the counter and walks back to the bedroom, climbing back under and curling on her side.  

She’s smiling with her lips closed. The rifle she had hit you with earlier still stands against the side of the bed. During the night, she will kick it in her sleep, and it will fall to the ground. 

Author's Note

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