Intervention

It's January, Anno Domini 2004. Rzeszów.

The witching hour is fifteen minutes away, and I'm walking home alone. I'm not worried at all; my thoughts are in the clouds, and the red wine I just drank with the girl I'm returning from is coursing through my veins.

It's snowing. Large white flakes are falling from the sky. It's beautiful.

I've already passed the city center, the sweatpants, pink blouses, gel, cars, and cell phones. All of that is behind me. Fewer passersby, and I finally don't have to wipe off that stupid smile that refuses to fade so easily.

I step onto the footbridge over the Wisłok River, just beyond it begins my neighborhood, where I know every bench and every bum in the gateway. I light a cigarette; I'm in no hurry, so I trudge along like a straggler from a caravan, contemplating the mud that the passersby have turned the snow into. Suddenly, reality bursts into my blissful journey.

"DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING PIPES?"

Four towering youths loom before me like horsemen of the apocalypse. At this phrasing of the request, I unhesitatingly blurted out,

"No."

I later wondered what would have happened if I'd answered differently, but it probably wouldn't have changed anything.

I didn't have time to notice which of them had thrown the first punch. Afterward, I managed to shout something that sounded like, "What the fuck are you talking about?" No one listened. The second punch came from the opposite direction; I lost my balance. Soil. Pavement. Close contact with the mud I'd just observed from above. My cigarette hissed in a puddle. I covered my head with my hands. Four pairs of healthy legs began to dance.

Finally, it dawned on me that they wanted something.

"Disc, disc. Fuck. Give me the disc.

What disc? What is it? Aaaaaah, yes, I still had it in my hand. A regular old 2GB HDD, used for transferring MP3s. So that was it. I didn't negotiate.

The dance was over.

My mouth is watering, clearly the head protection wasn't entirely effective. The young men walk away, and I see the headlights of an oncoming car. I get up and try to stop it.

MIRACLE!!! Miracle on the Wisłok River! A blue VW with white POLICE lettering stops. I'm either hallucinating or I've lost consciousness, because it's impossible to be that lucky. Three officers jump out, and my spirited group has only moved a mere 20 meters away.

I must have been a curious sight. My face—something between steak tartare and raw ground beef. I'm bleeding like a stuck pig. Overall, a picture of misery and despair. I ramble on, briefly describing the situation and pointing out the culprits, who have also noticed the rescue and are now picking up speed. They've jumped the barrier and are barreling through the bushes along the Wisłok River. The bravest of the rescuers runs to the barrier but is stopped by a simple but effective shout from his friend:

"Where the fuck are you, Franek? Stop, or they'll get you in those bushes!"

The action slows down. A walkie-talkie. A request for reinforcements. Someone has to block their escape route. I can see it now; they'd have to handcuff themselves.

I don't think about it anymore. My emotions slowly subside. I'm starting to feel the pain more and more intense. Both of my teeth are moving, and I'm starting to fear they'll fall out. I have a cut inside my mouth because I can't stop the bleeding. I'm stopping it with tissues because the policemen don't have a first aid kit.

We wait for the ambulance. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. 20 minutes. I'm standing in the freezing cold because, bleeding, I'd mess up their car. They suggest we walk, since the hospital is only half a kilometer away.

Finally, an ambulance arrives. It arrived half an hour after the call. The sidewalk looks like someone sacrificed animals.

A few stitches inside my mouth. A scar under my nose. Several sleepless nights from the pain. Two weeks of eating through a tube. No big deal.

Three months later, I received a notice that the case had been closed. Six months later, I got the drive back. I found them myself. After all, it's my neighborhood.