I am looking for a dog. Not any dog. A big dog. A big, scary dog, one that knows how to attack and fight and bark and leap. My mother keeps telling me that the kind of dog I want will eat my face off like that woman in France. I have to admit this scares me a little, but not as much as what I’m afraid is lurking outside my window.
Last week in the midst of producing a show called “Letters to Baghdad,” I came home late at night after having a beer with the cast. I remembered as I pulled into my parking spot, which sits at the end of my large, wild yard, that the head of my organization does not like me to leave the cash box from any show in my car. Ever. And I have to admit that something inside me said, “Leave it, it’s late, you don’t want to walk to the house with $1400 in cash.” But reason won out over intuition, and I rummaged around in the car for a few minutes trying to find the cash box neatly hidden in the way back of my wagon, my butt sticking out the door. As I came out, cash in hand, I sensed someone behind me. I looked around and there was a man standing a few feet away, watching me. I gasped. My car was locked, and I was holding money that my theatre company needed to even come close to breaking even.
It was a hot, sweaty night. He was wearing only khaki shorts, no shirt (although his T-shirt was hanging like a small towel around his neck). And sneakers. He said, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you.” I relaxed immediately and thought he must just be out for a stroll. It was a hot night and his blonde spiky hair glistened with sweat.
“Oh, you scared me. I didn’t see you,” I said. And I started to walk toward my house, which is about 300 feet down the street. I could feel how slow I was. I was so exhausted — mentally, physically — that even though I was holding money and I still felt uncomfortable that this man had just seen me take a large jar filled with cash and a cash box out of my car, I couldn’t seem to pick up the pace. My high heels clicked on the bricks, my bag swung against my thigh.
“What’s your name?” he asked and started to walk with me.
He’s just a neighbor, out for stroll on a hot night, I told myself. He was big — almost 6’2”, I’d say — with a large fat belly. Trying to be cheery I responded, “Caitlin. What’s yours?”
“Rob.”
He must live down this way, I thought. “Are you on your way home?” he asked.
“Yes, I live right there,” I said, and as I looked up, my gaze following my gesturing arm, I saw my building, which I had just identified as my home, was completely, unavoidably dark.
I still did not pick up the pace. My legs just couldn’t do it. It was almost like I had somehow resigned to whatever fate might become mine.
“Do you want some company?” he asked.
