My steps had to slow now. I was closing the distance between myself and the lounging pair too quickly. I had a good loud scream, inherited from my mother, and I sucked in air, preparing to use it, but my throat was so dry I wasn't sure how much volume I could manage. With a quick movement I slipped my purse over my head, gripping the strap with one hand, ready to surrender it or use it as weapon as need demanded.
The thickset man shrugged away from the wall as I warily came to a stop, and walked slowly down the street.
"Stay away from me," I warned in a voice that was supposed to sound strong and fearless. But I was right about the dry throat—no volume.185
"Don't be like that, sugar," he called, and the raucous laughter started again behind me.
I braced myself, feet apart, trying to remember through my panic what little self-defense I knew. Heel of the hand thrust upward, hopefully breaking the nose or shoving it into the brain. Finger through the eye socket—try to hook around and pop the other eye out. And the standard knee to the groin, of course. That same pessimistic voice in my soul spoke up then, reminding me that I only had one knee and there were fourteen of them. Shut up! I commanded the voice before terror could incapacitate me. I wasn't going out without taking someone with me. I tried to swallow so I could build up a decent scream.
Headlights suddenly flew around the corner, the car almost hitting the stocky one, forcing him to jump back toward the sidewalk in his flannel flip-flops. I dove into the road—this car was
185. Pump Up the Volume (1972), about a young radio DJ who just wants everyone to pump up the volume of their lives.