And All I Wanted Was a Sandwich

Last week I witnessed a carjacking. I was the only customer at Quizno’s, waiting for my sandwiches to shoot out of the toaster oven. There were two female employees, and the male employee was the one doing my toasting. The guy looked out the open side door and said, “Hey! Is that your car driving off?” to one of the girls. She ran out, started screaming every profanity in the book—and some original creations—opened the car door (the last thing I would’ve done), was immediately flung to the ground, and laid there shouting another round of profanities.

The male employee ran out to help her, and the other girl grabbed her cell phone to call 911. I heard the victim yell out, “It was a girl and two guys,” which made me assume that these were strangers to her, not just a former boyfriend who bought her the car and then had a change of heart. Yep, a bona fide carjacking, right there at Quizno’s.

While chaos ensued and my sandwiches toasted away, every imaginable scenario played through my mind. I looked for something I could duck under to dodge the spray of gunfire I imagined coming through the store’s giant windows. I imagined myself brave and helpful, running to the girl’s rescue, as clearly I was the only legal adult on hand. I quickly played back everything that had happened so I could put the story together for the police who would surely want my mature, non-hysterical account.

But within this cacophony of sensory input, only one thing really stood out. It was the little hand that squeezed firmly into mine. It was Brooka’s hand, and at that moment, it was the most important thing in my universe and controlled my every action. I looked out, saw the girl screaming, but uninjured, saw the car circling out of the parking lot, grabbed my four-year-old, and dashed to my van. Didn’t look back, didn’t offer any assistance, didn’t wait for my extra-toasty sandwiches. Didn’t even buckle my daughter in until we were blocks away. She knew something weird was happening but was smart enough to figure out it was a bad time to ask questions. She willingly followed me and assumed I knew what I was doing. No explanation needed. Her blind faith in me had never been more obvious. 

Being trapped in a dangerous situation with my child (or children) is the most terrifying thing I can imagine. One of my favorite movies, Life is Beautiful, tells the mind-boggling story of a father making a game of their concentration-camp imprisonment for his little boy just so he won't be terrified of the truth. (Remember Roberto Benigni jumping on his chair before collecting his Oscar in 1998—long before Tom Cruise made such activities popular?) Talk about the blind faith of a child.

So, let's see here. Just following the one who sees the Big Picture with no fussing or whining? (But what about my sandwich?!) Willingly following without questions or complaints? Hmmm. Is Someone trying to show me something? OK, OK, I'm listening. No more carjackings, please.