It’s the position of the head. She is leaning away, not towards.
She’s angry, but afraid. She wants to flee, not fight. Cornered, she’d kill.
She is cranking, armed with an axe and a hammer.
It’s rush hour. The hour of stupid. I’m in the middle.
Per radio, she swinging at passer-byes, commuters waiting for the transit line.
I don’t wait for cover. I scream in code, lights and siren. No one needs to be hacked or hit.
On scene, she’s armed as advertised, both weapons are in one had,. She shouting, nose to nose to a do-gooder, “You betta git outta my face you muhther fuckha.”
I exit the prowler, growl, Put the weapons down.
I don’t draw down. I take space. Make her focus on me.
She turns her head to me.
“Only if this muhtha fuckha gits outta my face.”
She wants scared, wants help.
Sir. Get away from her.
He says, “But……”
Get .. away .. from her. See that whiskey sign. Go there. Move now.
Her shoulders ease.
Now, put down the hammer and the axe.
She breathes, and tosses the weapons aside.
Now, sit on my push bumper and we’ll chat.
She moves over and plops down.
I grab the tools and toss them inside my car as I wait for the world to arrive.