Reach For The Skies

I am that person in the movie theater that covers her eyes the instant someone pulls out a gun, or even if they just act like they might at some point in the future. For this reason, I saw almost none of Goodfellas and spent the entirety of the famous bible-quoting scene of Pulp Fiction making a high-pitched squeal not unlike that of a frightened bunny. This strange nuerosis has not resulted from any sort of traumatic contact with handguns, since I grew up in a small town in Michigan and have never, in fact, seen an actual handgun much less had one pointed at my head amidst shouts for "all my money." I am afraid of guns the way people in Nebraska fear sharks or large-scale terrorist attacks--the fear is self-perpetuating though completely unfounded.

Unfortunately, I have recently relocated to New York City--a city that my small-town rearing has assured me is teeming with cocaine-fueled maniacs armed to the teeth with semi-automatics they've stolen off the bodies of fallen policemen--so my formerly neurotic, improbable fear has gained some credibility. Now when I go to movie theaters, I am not only afraid that one of the on-screen characters may reach for his holster, but that the 50-year-old Jewish woman in front of me might have an oozie in her jujubees. Everyone is suspect, from the ushers to the pimply-faced consession stand worker who looks like he has a mean-streak and an itching trigger finger. It's only a matter of time before I'm staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun and handing over my purse and king-sized Mike & Ikes.

I am fully prepared, at some point in my term of living in New York, to be robbed by a small child fishing for quarters in his front pocket.