As I limped home from Physical Therapy, a man walking in the opposite direction suddenly planted himself directly in front of me and slammed me in the head with a heavy bag.
It was a cloth bag, like a backpack with only one strap. I’ve no idea what was inside it : a beat box? a toolbox? Whatever it was, it was heavy and hard and it struck the top and side of my head with stunning force.
The man kept walking past me.
I said, “Hey! What the fuck?”
I’m usually more erudite but my head was buzzing and I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
I wheeled around. The man continued to walk away. I had assumed he struck me by accident and would apologize. Wrong on both counts.
Glancing over his shoulder, he waved his hand toward me as if batting away a fly. That’s when I knew he was mentally ill and had deliberately attacked me.
“Fuck you,” I said, half-hoping he would turn around so I could sock him.
He was bigger than me, he was visibly off his meds, and he enjoyed fighting, so this was unwise on my part, but I was too angry to be afraid of him.
He paused. Sensed that I was willing to confront him: me, grey- and white-haired, three times his age, two-thirds his height if that, and walking painfully with a pronounced limp.
He smiled as if my shock and anger were a magic balm for what ailed him, turned his face away, and continued his triumphal retreat.
After a minute, I turned away too, and finished what now felt like a long journey home.
I’m not harmed. No bruising, no bleeding.
What does hurt is the certainty that he chose me as a victim because I was walking slowly and with obvious difficulty. Because people with impairments are candy to predators.
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