This could only happen to me.

When I can’t sleep, which is often, I stumble out to the all night Duane Reade around the corner.  It’s empty at 3 a.m. except for a handful of sleepy employees, so one can cruise the aisles without being accosted by anyone named Carmelita in makeup and creams.

As I come in, a young cashier all of 20, is behind the counter with blood streaming down her face.  She’s Islamic, her pretty head wrapped up like a pretty package, with the exception of her hands and face from the eyes down, not a shred of skin showing.

Naturally I approach her.

“What happened?” I say, placing my hand on her arm. “A man, he came in to buy cigarettes and when I give him his change, screams ISIS, then punched me in my nose.”

I say, we need to call the police.  She panics. “No, no, please, they’ll blame me and I’ll lose my job.”

Meanwhile, blood is shooting like a geyser.  I find the manager upstairs sleeping behind the pharmacy.  After yelling at him for leaving her alone, I grab cotton and Witch-hazel flying downstairs like Clara Barton at the Battle of Antietam.  Another woman had come in, in the interim, and was comforting her.  After cleaning her up, her lazy co-worker said she could go home, but she refuses.

Let me say, I was so ashamed of humanity at that moment.  That someone could do such a thing to this young, innocent woman just because she chooses not to hide her faith.

My heart aches at this sad, prevalent, fucked-up truth.

I then go to the all night coffee shop to bring back tea.  The other woman, a lovely Latino lady, accompanies me, who starts to cry.

“What’s happened to us,” she said, “how can anyone be that cruel?”

“I don’t know ma’am, I truly don’t know,” I say, as we stand in silent solidarity.  

SB