Being Chicken

The freakiest thing just happened to me, Zonk. I was sitting here in my little corner table by the windows making visiting cards and minding my own business in a harmless sort of way, when someone, or something, knocked on my window. It wasn’t one knock, those are easy to justify. Even I don’t get freaked by one knock. But this was a series of knocks, about 7 or 8 rapid knocks, and I have no idea what to make of them.

So I did the only thing I could, Zonk. I called my mom and made her stand behind me while I peered out through the glass and shut the curtains and behaved like a gutless chicken for a while. I am pretty much a gutless chicken, I know, but consider the facts.

  1. I’ve been watching too much Mentalist.
  2. My window’s nowhere near the ground and it’s surrounded by a grill on all three sides.
  3. It’s a box grill, which means it’s too far away from the window pane to let something slip through by mistake too often, let alone not 7-8 things (or 1 thing 7-8 times).

So that eliminates passing birds, and it better not have been a person, because what the fuck would a person be doing hanging out in my window box. You see my dilemma here. There was knocking, definite knocking, and I can’t think of anything to attribute said knocking to. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

In any case, I calmed down enough to get back to sitting here again, but I’m still not ready to lie down on the outside edge of the bed or dangle my legs. So I made a theory instead:

I’m not sure why I’m so chicken on a general basis, but I think it has something to do with adrenaline. I was talking to R some time back about The Mystery of The Knocking Window, and he asked me what I’d do if there was indeed a crazy axe murderer sitting in my grill. I told him I’d hope he killed me first and did it real quick. But R wanted to hear what my actual POA would be, so I thought about it for a bit and decided that if there really was a crazy axe murderer in my grill, I’d take my phone and run to my sister’s. I asked him what he’d do in the situation, and he said he’d try and find a weapon, because then he would feel safe.

Here’s the thing, Zonk. People come in a gazillion combinations of traits and tendencies and no two people are really ever the same. We’re all built in different ways. And yet, when it comes to situations that could actually change your life forever, we all do one of two things. I asked a bunch of people what they’d do in the crazy axe murderer situation after I spoke to R about it.

Rao would protect his mother, Si would lock his parents in their bedroom and run for his koyta, C would grab a knife or lock the room and climb into the neighbour’s house via the balcony. Long ago, I’d asked Mel what he’d do if he ever found himself stranded in Yeoor Hills after sundown and a cheetah dropped by to eat him. He told me he’d probably punch it in the face.

These are people wired to fight for their lives if ever the need should arise. I am wired to run for it. I’d try to make it to the next safe place, but that’s the most I think I’d do. Thing is, some people can count on themselves to come through in a sticky situation. I count on other people. Take other people away and I’m become useless on account of Crippling Fear. I doubt I can blame being chicken on a chemical reaction, but in some convoluted way, I do think it’s possible that a large part of who I am derives from the fact in a do or die situation, I’d almost always die. Sucks. But oh well. Such is the endocrine system.

And now I know I’m going to have twisted dreams. I really need to stop watching the Mentalist. Damn you for being so awesome, Patrick Jane. Some of us have sanities to protect!

The Mentalist
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