A Memoir by Crystal Pillifant
The teller wrote in my savings book and scrunched up her blue eyes into a fake smile. “Thanks, Miss ….”
“It’s pronounced HOW-ra-gy’,” I explained. People often stared at my married surname—Jáuregui—perplexed with how to pronounce it. In college that semester when professors took roll, they stopped dead in their tracks when they got to the ‘J’s’. After the first few times, I anticipated the problem, raised my hand, and helped them out. They’d smile gratefully, then continue without repeating it.
With the savings booklet in my purse, I walked out feeling pleased for being frugal. I had plans and was determined to be penny-wise. I’d opened the account as soon as I received my first paycheck from the Bank of America where I was a teller.
Living in Los Angeles was exciting for a girl from Portland, Oregon. The student body at my college in L.A. was mostly white, but it was surrounded by an all-Black neighborhood—a change from white-bread Portland.
Reaching the parking lot, I climbed in my car, and pulled on the door. It didn’t budge. I raised my head and saw a young Black man holding the door and pointing a gun at my head. He shifted on his feet and waved the gun. “Give me all your money, lady.”
Perhaps it was my youthful naïveté, but I wasn’t frightened. The gun was so small, I thought it was a toy. Of course, I’d never seen a real handgun except on television, but I thought sure he was bluffing. I let out a chuckle, “That’s not a real gun.”
“Oh, it’s real, lady. Don’t make me prove it to you.”
After considering it briefly, I decided the smart thing was to give him the little money I had, so I emptied my wallet of its eight dollars. He pocketed the money then waved the gun again. “And what you have in your bra, too.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t carry money in my bra. That’s all I have.”
He must have believed me because he didn’t press for more. He stepped back and looked me in the eye. Sweat beads ran down his temple and dripped onto his Black History T-shirt. He resembled Malcom X without the glasses. Waving the gun, he asked. “What police station are you going to?”
At that point, I realized he was more frightened than me. I shook my head. “I’m not going to the police. I haven’t a clue where a police station is.” I paused and thought for a moment. “What an awful world we live in that you feel the only way to get help is to rob someone. You know, if you had just come to me and asked for money, I could have shared the little I had with you.”
His eyes were fixed on me as he shook his head slowly. “No way.” He tucked his gun into the back of his tight jeans, then glanced around and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. After a long pause, he said, “Damn lady, I feel like I should give you your money back.” He reached into his pocket and took out the money.
“No,” I said waving my hands, “You look like you need it more than me. Keep it.”
He glanced down at his feet, then looked up the road. “Could you give me a ride?”
“I’m sorry, my husband wouldn’t want me to give a ride to a man I don’t know.”
He nodded, then turned and strode across the parking lot, glancing over his shoulder several times. I sat there watching him, suddenly aware of my heart pounding in my chest, and I felt light-headed.
Looking back, I wonder where is that young man now? Did he survive into adulthood? Did he live a full life like me—with kids, maybe grandkids? Was his gun real, and if it was, did he ever use it again?
In my memory, I can still see him walking away in the blazing heat, that little pistol heavy in the back of his jeans, my cash—his cash—folded neatly in his front pocket. I picture him swiveling his head at every car, expecting the police, but only seeing people going about their days.
* * *
Crystal W. Pillifant has a master’s degree in elementary education and taught for nearly twenty years in a bilingual school in the Beaverton School District near Portland, Oregon. After retiring, she returned to her love of writing and has written a novel based on her experiences as a bilingual teacher. Other published works of hers have appeared in Persimmon Tree online and the Midsummer Literary Journal. She resides in Port Townsend, Washington with her husband and two cats.