An Evening with Walter
It was the summer of 1977. At long last night had
fallen, bringing an end to another day of scorching heat. I opened the bedroom
window of my tiny first storey apartment on the corner of 127th Street and
Jamaica Avenue in Queens. I remember enjoying that pleasant yet short-lived
moment of cooler air drifting into my bedroom, providing some temporary
salvation to my sweaty body. The lingering aroma of cooked seafood coming from
the kitchen of Montanes New York Restaurant underneath flirted with me. I could
hear distant car traffic and the next train on its way from Jamaica to Elmhurst
and Astoria, and beyond, Lower Manhattan. This was only background noise. In
fact, the neighborhood was unusually calm for such a night in early-August.
I had
spent the day locked up in my apartment, curtains drawn, reading the papers on
my bed or simply getting lost in my thoughts. I occasionally broke the routine
by raiding the refrigerator for some leftover pizza or a Bud, or by sometimes
lighting up a smoke. That made me think I was running low on the Lucky Strikes
and I’d have to go out and get some more. Yet, the sole thought of wandering outside
my apartment made me shake with fear. I quickly abandoned that idea and lied
down on the bed, contemplated the crack in the ceiling and lowered my tired
gaze to the holes in wall in front of me.
I shut my eyes. Tried to picture my landlord renovating
the goddamn place, enlightening the decaying decor. Sure I would have done it
myself, but my extinct career prospects and meager veteran's compensation meant
that it would take me a while before getting round to the revamp. Hell, I was
struggling to keep the Bud and smokes supplies afloat. Taking care of my
surroundings would be a job for another day. Some day when I would actually
give a shit.
A
police car dashed by, siren screeching through the silent night, projecting
hazy blue light onto my bedroom ceiling. It reminded me of the day's feature
article in the paper, brought me back to sad reality.
The killer who called himself 'Son of Sam' had shot
and critically wounded his 12th and 13th victims, Robert Violante, 20, and
Stacy Moscowitz, 20, the previous evening. They had been attacked while making
out in Violante’s car parked near the Brooklyn waterfront. According to the
paper, ballistics experts confirmed that the bullets were from a .44-caliber
gun used by Son of Sam. Police had reportedly intensified patrols in Queens and
East Bronx, warned by his latest letter, one in which he exposed his plans to
strike again on the anniversary date of his first shooting. Next to this
article was a police sketch of Son of Sam.
This
plain and simply terrorized me. And it is safe to say that I wasn't the only
New Yorker with such feelings. After all, these were harsh times. The city’s economic
prospects were bleak and the crime rate had jumped almost seventy-five percent
in three years. Not to mention a two-day blackout in mid-July and the mandatory
aftermath of looting and vandalism. And on top of that, we had this maniac on
the loose, killing folks with his .44-caliber and leaving sordid letters with
the police detailing how he was prowling on the streets, hunting, looking for
tasty meat right here in Queens. Sure the attacks were random but I had read
that they were under the command of Sam, a man who supposedly lived six thousand
years ago, now relaying messages to his son. That's why people were indoors. It
wasn't due to the sweltering summer. It was more to do with survival instinct.
I rubbed a pillow on my forehead to get rid of a few
beads of sweat, tried to think about more positive things, but couldn't. I
stripped naked, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and drank water from the
tap. It tasted like copper. I returned to bed and closed my eyes, hoping that
sleep would come shortly and that my dreaming would be of the pleasant kind.
It
may have been minutes or hours later. Suddenly, I was awoken by a noise of
shattering glass followed by a deep 'thump'.
I rose from the bed and staggered to the door, my eyes
having difficulty adapting to the dark. I knocked my shoulder on the door frame
and cursed to myself. I was naked, my prick dangling, defenseless.
I
called out in a deep and virile voice, 'I gotta gun. Get the fuck out'.
I got
no reply.
My
dark thoughts came back to me at light speed. Shit, what if it were Son of Sam
in my apartment? What if I was his next piece of fair game? I was as much a
random target as any other poor schmuck in this neighborhood.
After
such a realization I stepped backwards into my bedroom, slammed the door and
ducked behind the bed. My breathing slowed down. I tried to listen to the
sounds of my apartment. It was faint, but I could hear something going on in
the kitchen. Someone had definitely broken in. That someone seemed to be
rummaging through the cupboards, searching the worktop. Why didn't the intruder
react to my warning? What the hell was going on? I was lost and confused. I was
scared shitless.
I
looked around in a vague attempt to look at the options at my disposal. Exit my
bedroom through the window? No, bad idea. Hide under the bed? Surely not. Son
of Sam would find me there. And then the solution dawned upon me. It was
sitting on the bedside table next to the lamp: the phone. I fumbled around the
bed and retrieved the newspaper, began leafing my way through to the page with
the latest NYPD update on the Son of Sam slayings, and dialed 9-1-1.
After
hearing the connection sounds and first few ringtones, I yanked the phone away
from my ear for a few seconds. The noises in the kitchen were ongoing but
remained faint.
A
female operator answered. '9-1-1, how may I be of assistance?'
Conscious
of the noise I would probably make, I took a moment before replying in a voice
which I tried to make as soft as possible. 'My name is Walter Slominski.'
'I'm
sorry sir. I didn't quite catch your name.'
'Wal-ter
Slo-min-ski!' I said louder. 'I live on the corner of 127th Street and Jamaica
Avenue. I want to report a home invasion.'
The
female voice replied, 'Is this your home or are you reporting a home invasion
from another location?'
'My
place,' I replied, irritated. 'Please send a patrol quick. I think it might be
Son of Sam.'
'Sir,
there is no need to panic. A call will be made. You will receive assistance
soon.'
I was
furious and temporarily forgot that the sonofabitch was in my kitchen.
'Listen,
lady. Make it real quick! The patrol might have to report another of the
.44-caliber Killer's victims if they don't hurry.'
'Sir,
we're getting hundreds of phone calls every day with regard to Son of Sam and
we are doing the best we can.'
'You're
not the one with a serial killer in his home!' I replied.
I
looked at the paper. 'Get Deputy Inspector Timothy Dowd on the line. I know
he's investigating the case. He'll understand me,' I said, panicking.
'Mr.
Slominski, try to stay calm. Where are you exactly?'
'In
my bedroom. Door's closed. I think he's in the kitchen.'
'Do
you think he knows you're in?'
'I'm
not sure. I warned him that I have a gun, but he didn't react and he hasn't
come to check the bedroom yet.'
'Mr.
Slominski, do you have this gun with you now?'
'No,
I pretended to have one'.
'Okay.
The best you can do is push your bed against the door and remain in a corner
until the patrol arrives. Can you move the bed easily?'
'I
think I can,' I replied, drily.
'Go
ahead, do it. I'll remain on the line'.
I put
down the phone and did as instructed. The bed made a loud screeching noise as
its legs scraped the floor. I finally managed to push it right against the
door. Before I picked up the receiver, I listened carefully. The intruder was still
silent.
'Sir,
sir?' I could hear the operator's voice on the phone enquiring.
I
resumed the conversation, 'I'm still here.'
'Good.
Did the intruder hear you?'
'I
don't think so. He might be gone,' I replied. 'What's happening with my
patrol?'
'I
told you they're on their way. Hold tight. I'll stay on the line until they
arrive.'
And
so I did.
I sat on the floor, holding the phone, stroking the
cord nervously. I could hear an occasional thump or very quiet footsteps coming
from the kitchen. Maybe Son of Sam was feeling hungry tonight and needed a
snack before moving on to the next victim of his killing spree? I guessed it
was a good thing that only a few slices of pizza were left and that I hadn't
gone grocery shopping. Perhaps he would realize that he hadn't chosen the best
of pantries.
Tortured
by the near absence of noise, I mounted the bed and approached the door. I
looked through the keyhole, saw nothing. All I could hear was the sound of my
heart’s private rock concert. Maybe he was gone? Maybe I wasn't going to be his
next victim after all?
With
no imminent police arrival, I reckoned that I could have another go at
frightening him off.
'Hey
man, get the hell out of my apartment!' I yelled. 'Gun's loaded, you fuckin'
scumbag.'
No
response.
Confused
and angered, I decided to end the absurd situation myself. I yanked the bed
back into place and opened the bedroom door loudly, made it smash against the
wall.
'I'm
comin' to getcha!' I shouted.
I
moved stealthily closer to the kitchen at the other end of the short corridor.
I suddenly realized in the midst of my gung-ho euphoria that I was still naked
and totally vulnerable.
I
rested my back and butt against the wall next to the kitchen door. Then I
closed my eyes, turned around. I charged clumsily, dick swinging, into the
kitchen.
I
opened my eyes.
The
shattered glass was on the floor, as expected. However, the window wasn't
broken. It was slightly ajar, the way I had left it.
I
couldn't see Son of Sam. Where the hell was he? Had he really decided to
torment someone else?
A few
of the kitchen's cupboard doors had been opened. A washing up liquid bottle and
some sponges had fallen out and had tumbled to the floor. I guessed the
shattered glass could have been the water jug I had left on the worktop, as it
was no longer there.
All
of a sudden, a flash of pain jolted my body. It came from below and ran
upwards, freezing me on the spot. It felt like I had been stabbed in the calf.
But
the pain instantly dissipated.
I
turned around in surprise, expecting Son of Sam to deliver his final blow. He
was not standing behind me. There was no one there.
The
stabbing in the calf sensation immediately started again, which forced me to
look down.
And
there he was the sonofabitch. There he fucking was, hissing at me.
The
neighbor's grey tabby cat had stuck his claws into me, surely to avenge himself
from an unfruitful search for food.
I
stared the slender and demoniac creature in the eye.
He
met my gaze, mano-a-mano, and meowed. Goddam heat wave-induced paranoia.
