"How do you scream for help with your eyes?"

"So...how do you scream for help with your eyes?"

Last Wednesday night, I was the closing receptionist at my very important mall job and decided to plop myself down on a bench while I waited for my friend to get off at her equally important position. The mall was rather empty, as it should be after closing time, with only a few stragglers wandering by every few minutes mumbling about why they couldn't remember where they parked their cars. Ever the opportunist, I took out my book and cracked it open to try and squeeze in a few minutes of pleasure reading. Not even two pages later, a creeper of the creepiest sort came out of no where and asks me if I could tell him where Green St. is. He had a dirty tank top on with equally dingy jeans all topped off by the pick in his hair and the nasty bloody bandage on his right hand. I quickly informed him of my lack of Green Street knowledge to which he replied, "Ah, well. Yo gorgeous, what yo' name?"
As I watched him swagger over to take the seat next to me I thought to myself, "Oh, shit. Here we go. How the hell can I get out of this?" Caught off guard, I told him my actual name and tried to make it obvious that I was so not interested without being a complete bitch because I really didn't want the crazy next to me to shank me out in the parking lot because of his inability to handle rejection.
As he began to rant about what he thinks the difference between "makin' love" and "just smashing" is, I am actively searching for an escape route. I reach for my purse, which happens to be in between us, and he gets pissy with me asking if he makes me nervous, which then leads to another rant about how women are all alike and that they don't ever trust men and make the good guys pay for all the douche bags' mistakes. I nod along in passive compliance but am starting to feel desperate for my friend to emerge from her safe haven behind the gated entrance of her store. Then the ballsy, yet very unobservant, creeper proceeds to ask for my phone number. But ha! I am more prepared for him this time and play the "I have a boyfriend" card. But my smugness is quickly squashed by his unwillingness to accept defeat. Horrified that my trump card had failed, I mentally kick myself for not using the "I'm a lesbian" card instead. All the while I am trying to hold onto my shell of calm encasing my internal panic. He begins to move in closer and snake his bloody-bandaged hand towards my back when the heavens open up and send me a savior. Along comes and officer. Not a mall cop, but an actual officer of the law. He had a gun. But he was not looking at me and I obviously couldn't call out for him so I did the only thing I could think of: I stared him down while praying to whom ever would hear that he would feel my stare.
And it worked! He turned, and I screamed for help as loud as my eyes would allow. When he furrowed his brow and began to walk towards us all I could do was nod approval at him. As the 5'1" officer spoke to Mr. Creeperson, I learned that he had in fact already been arrested earlier that day by that same officer. Then the officer turned to me and asked if I knew the man sitting way too close to me. I quickly spit out that I did not know him and that I needed to leave immediately if not sooner and proceeded to speed walk away.
And as I am running for safety, the ballsy creeper is still trying to hit on me! I don't acknowledge his requests as I slam into the gate of the closed shop and scream-whisper, "AMANDA! AMANDA! HELP ME!!!"
As she comes to my rescue, the suave creeper is escorted out of the mall in handcuffs to who-knows-where and I don't care! Close call? Maybe. You be the judge.