The Mid-Wilshire Raccoon Gang

We’re walking up Genesee St. by Fairfax. It’s one in the morning and a damp chill encompasses us. We tuck our heads down, pick up the pace and draw our coats closer. It’s just the two of us out on that dark street, just Mauli and I, or so we thought. Up ahead we see it, coming out of a fog, coming towards us, dark, hunched close to the ground. It walks silently, a menacing swagger in its step. I stop. My breath catches in my throat.

“What IS that?” I say grabbing her arm.

She stops beside me, squinting into the darkness up ahead at the Thing approaching. Whatever it is, it means business!

“Maybe it’s....a cat?…” she says nervously.

I look at her sideways. Please, that’s no cat. The beast stops and turning its head towards the parked cars it begins sniffing the air, perhaps signaling the others. Then it faces us once again. Was that a grin it flashed? It takes two steps towards us, challenging our approach. My god, the size of it!

“That’s not a cat Mauli.” I state matter-of-factly.

It turns its head one eye gleaming in the moonlight. We watch as it quickly scurries to take up residency under a parked car.

“My god, what should we do? Is it under that car? Did it cross the street? Shit!!”

Panic has gripped us. We look back. Every apartment complex is dark. Where’s a man when you need one damn it! There’s no movement up ahead. Where the fuck did that thing go?

“I think we should cross the street and take the other sidewalk. I can see it hunching under that car. I say we cross!” Mauli's voice is raised in panic.

Still, I’m unsure that this is the best course of action. “I don’t know Mauli, are you sure you see it? What if it crossed the street?”

I now remember that I’m in 3-inch heels and I curse under my breath.

“Well we’ve got to do something. If we pass that car, that monstrosity is going to come running out for our ankles.” I know she’s right. The beast had looked menacing enough; images of undiluted rabies coursing through my veins begin dancing in my head.

“Shit. Ok, let’s cross the street.”

With our eyes still on the car up ahead, we begin a silent retreat towards the safety of the other sidewalk. Halfway there I turn my head and the blood drains from me instantly.

“Oh fuck, look!!!” I scream, pointing to our destination.

There it sits, another one even more gargantuan in size. It’s sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, its eyes a dark slit of foreboding. Clearly we’ve stumbled into Mid-Wilshire’s witching hour. We realize too late that we are out of our league and outwitted. Mauli grips my arm, horror-struck. Is this it? Is this our final demise? Are we to fall prey to this terrifying mob of bloodthirsty raccoons? Are we to be on the front page of tomorrow’s paper? Will they chew our lips off? My god, I’m going to be the world’s second recipient of a face transplant!

Gripped with horror we scream and flee for our lives towards the sidewalk, and up past the parked car under which the first raccoon squats in wait. My three -inch heels no longer an obstacle. We are Olympians, Mauli and I and we’ll be damned if anything can catch us now. Faster women have never been clocked anywhere! A block past the car we stop to catch our breath and look back. There it is, back in the middle of the sidewalk. It has crawled out from under the car and is now looking at us over its shoulder. Surprise is clearly registered on its wicked face, its sordid plans foiled. It moves as if to turn towards us and we’re off again at top speed, with renewed energy. We abandon the sidewalk altogether and run down the middle of the street, towards her car. A passing motorist rolls down his window. “Get out of the fucking street!” he yells. Yeah right mister, not a chance!

Finally, at the car and shaking Mauli fumbles with the lock. Thoughts run through my head, maybe there are more, perhaps even under this very car. Could we be surrounded? The lock gives and we dive into the safety of her car, slamming the doors shut. My god, we’ve survived. We look at each other and laugh nervously. We’ve narrowly escaped death, and are gripped with hysteria and relief. We speed off promising to call Animal Control first thing in the morning. They’ll need to know to bring the big gun, and backup! There’s a raccoon gang in Mid-Wilshire, a fiendish, bloodthirsty ankle-biting gang and we’ve survived to tell of it.

Posted: 1:47 a.m. EST January 11, 2007 by marty