The Truth Ain't Always Nice
Big trigger warning on this one. I'm doing fine, but this one is a lot, and does include a story about a very scary shooting.
*Big trigger warning on this one. I’m doing fine, but this story is a lot and includes a shooting incident. I’m writing this now so that I can move past it without coming back to writing my more typical newsletters and acting like nothing happened. I really hate pretending that nothing has happened when it has.
I went to dinner with my friend, Willow, last night. We went to Bull Valley Roadhouse in Port Costa, one of my favorite places. I had a Negroni, Shrimp and Grits with bacon and chives, and a Crispin Glover (a mezcal and grapefruit juice cocktail).
I arrived about fifteen minutes before Willow, found two stools at the bar, and chatted with the couple to my left. We discovered that we’re neighbors. They live in the brightly, period-appropriately, painted victorian on the corner. I live down the street in the adobe-colored-stucco Art-Deco-meets-Spanish-Revival place with a stained glass window in the front. They asked me how I liked Crockett. I said I loved it.
Then they asked, “Did you see recently when the Sheriff was at the house next to you moving someone out? Was it an eviction? Do you know?”
I sipped my cocktail, swallowed, and said, “I heard it was a restraining order situation, but everything seemed to work out fine.”
Willow arrived and the conversation changed. I took a deep breath and ran my hand through my hair.
I didn’t tell them the Sheriff was at my house, on civil standby, while my ex moved their belongings out, or that I was the person who requested a restraining order, which was granted just two days earlier.
Going to court with your ex is terrible. I hated doing it when I was going through divorce, but when you have to give testimony about the things someone has done to you while they’re sitting just a few feet away and they have to answer for it in front of a judge, it’s worse. I felt a million miles away from my body, but the words came out, and the case was made.
I was horribly anxious in the days leading up to the move out. I didn’t sleep well. I made mistakes at work. I was so exhausted with my ex disrupting my life, I resented giving them my Saturday morning.
When I saw them carrying a box with my bottle of laundry detergent in it, I said, “I don’t think that’s yours.”
“Well, the bottle is yours, but the soap is mine,” they said and pulled an empty jar, then a Tupperware tub, from the box, poured the detergent into the containers, and handed me the empty bottle.
It was a long Saturday morning. They’d need to come back the next day to finish up. After they left, I smoked a joint and watched “Mom.”
A couple hours later, I pep-talked myself into getting out of the house. “This is my life now, and I’m almost through this weekend. I should do something nice for myself. Maybe I’ll go to Savers and see if I can find a picnic blanket to add to May’s picnic basket birthday present.”
So, I went. I found a trophy with a gold-plated person holding their arms in the air. The plate was engraved “EXTRA.” Obviously, I felt that I absolutely needed a trophy for being extra. I found an adorable woven basket purse shaped like an acorn, and an old-school carved wooden car like the ones my grandparents had at their house when we were kids. I passed by the clothing to avoid a four-hour shopping session and rounded the corner near the tablecloths, bed linens, and, hopefully, picnic blankets.
One of my clients texted me a photo of her and her family holding up glasses of champagne. She was wearing her wedding dress, and looked so proud to have found the right one. I wrote, “Ohhhh, I love it! It’s a perfect dress for…”
Everyone in the store suddenly looked up. A loud pattering sounded outside and I wondered “gun shots or fireworks?” It started again. Clearly shots. People began running and screaming away from the store entrance. I ran past shelves and wondered if I could hide behind them, hyper-aware of every thought, “Too thin, not enough protection, run toward the shoe shelves, or the back of the store, or - Emergency Exit, run to the Exit.”
I paused at the Emergency Exit door because, from there, I had a view down the front of the store to the main entrance. I decided that, if I saw someone coming in the store with a gun, I’d run outside, and head the opposite direction once I reached the sidewalk. Nobody coming in. I popped the exit open just an inch so I could peek at the store entrance from the outside. The alarm went off. I thought, “Good, that will alert the cops.”
Staff members were yelling for everyone to run to the back of the store. I followed. I arrived to find every shopper inside the store huddled in a wide hallway. Old ladies held their purses to their chests, a young couple held each other, shaking. I could hear people praying.
I managed to dial 911 and was trying to catch my breath enough to tell the dispatcher there was an active shooter at Savers in San Pablo. My call dropped. Tall stacks of thick, plastic storage bins were stacked in the hallway alcove. I threw my purse on the floor, tossed my phone on top of it, pulled a heavy stack of containers from the alcove and began yelling “Help me move these! We need to build a barricade.”
People began pitching in and we quickly had a wall two-container stacks thick blocking access to the hallway. A woman realized we were surrounded by doors and started putting chairs and clothing boxes, anything she could find, in front of them. People asked each other if they were okay, two people were on the phone with 911.
I asked everyone to keep their voices down, and unless they were on the phone with 911 to please stay quiet. I didn’t want to draw the shooter directly to us.
I was shaking so hard I could barely text my kids, “I’m at Savers. I’m safe. There was a shooting outside. I blockaded us all in the back of the store.”
My daughter called me and helped me breathe.
When we were given the all-clear, I didn’t want to leave the hallway. I was badly shaken, and was the last person out. The store looked like something bad had happened. Stuffed animals were all over the floor. The eerie sound of cash registers bleeping bar codes got louder as I cautiously moved toward the front. People who were barricaded with me in the hallway ten minutes earlier were making purchases.
Outside, police tape wrapped around building poles and trees. Inside the taped off area, a gray sedan was covered in bullet holes, the windows were shot out, and the driver, who I can’t imagine survived, had gone up a parking lot divider, and knocked out a fire hydrant. Water poured into the flooded parking lot. Officers were positioned around the perimeter, talking to each other, two people from the hallway were giving an officer a statement.
I desperately wanted someone to talk to as if it might help my brain catch up to everything I was looking at. I asked an officer if we were okay to leave.
“As long as your car isn’t parked in a taped off area, you’re free to go.”
I talked to my son as I pulled out of the parking lot, still shaking, feeling a bit dizzy, I told him I’d call him back when I got home. I needed to focus on breathing to I could safely drive.
Focusing didn’t work so I called my therapist. She kept me talking as I merged onto the freeway, explained what happened, and tried to breathe. I told her I’d arrived at my exit. She said that was good and I was almost home.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m stopping at the liquor store. I will be self-medicating about this.”
“Honey, you do whatever you need to do tonight.”
Being in a store felt so strange, I had to crouch in an aisle to breathe for a few seconds. I bought three tall cans of White Claw and called my dad on my way home. I locked the doors, and sat on the couch, drenched in that extra gross kind of anxiety sweat that feels offensive even to yourself, and downed a White Claw.
I took a bath with lavender oil, washed my hair, and put on a robe. I couldn’t stop pacing. I cracked another White Claw, smoked a little bit of weed, and had a long talk with my sister, pacing in a figure 8 around my dining table, into my living room, around my coffee table, and back to the dining room. Pacing, talking, processing.
I couldn’t believe my ex was coming back the next morning. I finished my text to my client. “…a garden wedding in Sonoma! Sorry, I was interrupted in the middle of texting you earlier.”
The next morning, the Sheriff returned, and when the last items were out, I sobbed.
Nothing felt real for days. I went to work on Monday, told my boss what happened, and we decided I’d work from home and take the time I needed. I mostly only clocked in as a professional TV watcher. I didn’t see anyone I loved in person for days, everyone called and made sure I was okay, but I really wanted a hug.
By Thursday, I met my buddy Carolyn for coffee, finally got that hug, went shopping without feeling completely terrified, and even went to the post office. But mostly, I watched TV, like seven seasons of “Mom.”
It’s been two weeks now since the shooting, and I finally feel mostly okay. There’s some lingering depression about the incredibly disappointing way my relationship ended, and moments when I jump at sounds, but I feel like I’m back in my body, and things aren’t so hazy. I’m thinking a lot about what I want for my life. At least I know the neighbors are keeping an eye on our street.