Elanso

Yesterday, I stopped by the local convenience store to grab a few things, when I noticed strange things were afoot at... the 7-11.

At the same time a man in an over-sized puffy black coat slipped out of line in front of me and walked toward the door, a female customer went into hysterics at the check-out counter.

"But I just deposited me a damn check! There is too available funds!"

I raised an eyebrow in interest as her voice got louder, and louder until all eyes were on her. The man in the coat slipped out the door as the woman hollered in a stage voice,

"I ain't got no damn cash!"

Whatever it was, I thought, the fella in the puffy coat just got away with something. But what? Beer? Slim Jims? It's 7-11, for crying out loud. I simply couldn't imagine going to such an dramatic effort to get away with a package of Twinkies and some Keystone Lite. But these are tough times; people do what they feel they have to. I shrugged, paid for my items and went out to my car.

They were next to me at the light when I pulled out - the hysterical woman, the man in the big black coat. They honked. I didn't so much as turn my head. But when I got through the intersection, they were behind me, the black Kia filling up my rear view mirror. My stomach turned to lead.

I'm not prone to paranoia, but I try to be aware of my surroundings and never second-guess my instincts. And right then, my instincts were telling me that something was very, very wrong. I turned onto my street; without signaling, they followed. The next turn into my parking lot, they took, too. I reached for my handbag and realized with a sudden panic, that I had left my phone behind at home, charging on the counter.

All I could do was stay in the car where I was safe. So, instead of slowing near my apartment, I sped through the parking lot. They followed. I'll spare you the turn-by-turn I gave my brother last night on the phone, but say that ten minutes later, after some seriously reckless driving on Greenville Avenue, I lost them at a red light.

I don't know what had made me seem a likely target. Dressed in saggy cargo pants I'd painted the apartment in, and a ratty gray sweatshirt from college, I hardly looked like a cash cow. But I drive a new car. And I carry a nice handbag. I suppose it was enough.

When I got home, I got out of my car and ran. Up the stairs, into my apartment, where I locked the doors, and crawled onto the sofa and waited for my heart to stop racing.