Saved in Seattle: A True Story, Really

It has always been easy for me to sleep on floors, in closets, even outside. Or in motion - traveling somewhere. I feel safer that way. And there have been times since I was 17 when I had no place to live unless unexpectedly kind people took me in. One of those years when I first moved to Seattle, I stayed in the house of a family who always had people staying with them. For a few days I slept in a pull-out bed in the living room, but another guest there, Ron, wouldn't leave me alone.

            So I slept on the floor in the baby's room until I discovered the fish tanks in the basement. In this room, huge tanks with tropical fish including piranha crossed one wall. The room was reachable on a long flight of stairs at the end of the kitchen. A large woven rug covered the floor. All I needed to rest peacefully was a pillow and sleeping bag. I could hear people in the kitchen sometimes: laughing or singing. And Ron seemed to know better than to bother me there, so I felt safe. When I got up, I could climb the stairs to the kitchen where the group was diverse where I feel best. Some were singers, some actors, and a few were funny, so there was often laughter and interesting conversation.

            During this time, I worked at Boeing, and had found a counselor who was helping me get a grant to the University there and trying to find me a place with other young people. Meanwhile, I was happy, even though I felt uneasy with Ron trying to get my attention, usually he left me alone. 

            But one afternoon when no one else was home, Ron followed me through the swinging door into the kitchen, which was long and narrow with counters and appliances on either side. He knew no one else was there, and he seemed angrier than usual and determined.

            I had already learned not to be in a room I couldn't escape from. But this time I couldn't. He was between me and the swinging door behind him. He opened one of the drawers and grabbed a butcher knife, challenging me, goading me. I couldn't run to the basement because that would trap me more.  'This is it, then' I thought. A whirlpool of images flooded my mind as he closed in on me, the knife pointed at me.

            Then suddenly, the swinging door pushed open and a taller man, one I barely knew except that he was good people from the North Country, looked in and over Ron’s head and instantly saw what was happening. "Get your things."

            I ran to the basement, grabbed what I could, then flew back up the steps and out the front door to his truck. As we drove away, I knew I wouldn't return for years and was leaving behind some good plans - just to be safe, to be free. We drove through the night until he turned into a campsite beside a river far north of the Cascades and Seattle, and close to Canada. There apple pickers were camping out.  

          His name was Tim, and he was so kind that he slept outside with some of the others and let me sleep in the back of his truck. I shared it with a pack rat I rarely saw, but heard rustling beneath my built-in bed. Why would I mind a pack rat at that point? The sound was actually comforting.

            This is a true story I wouldn't be writing if Tim hadn't suddenly, unexpectedly walked into the house and the kitchen at that moment. I had not seen him in that house before.