Move Over Freddy and Jason; Make Room for The Van Man

Last Tuesday I woke up with the mother of all sinus headaches and a clearance of approximately .00000001 mm for air passage through my throat so, after calling in sick to work and collapsing into a deep sleep for another couple of hours, I eventually got myself out of bed, threw on enough clothes so that I was only minimally scary looking, and drove down the street to CVS to pick up some Claritin-D. As I got out of my car and headed towards the store, I slowly realized that the pounding I was hearing came not from within my stopped up head, but the back of a van parked a few spaces over. I turned to see that there was a guy in the back, face pressed close to the window, waving frantically at me. I waved back uncertainly, half-convinced he was some mentally challenged dude who thinks everyone walking by is his friend. Before I could move away, he shouted "Let me out of here!" When I stopped, he pleaded once again for me to release him, stating that he had accidentally locked himself in.

My first thought was that this was the point in a horror movie where you're screaming at the moron on screen not to open the door because once he does he's going to get his throat slit, eyes gouged out, and/or body mangled by the power tool du jour. Guided by almost 30 years of slasher-film-fueled paranoia I hesitated, taking a quick moment to study the van and its surroundings: both front doors wide open; work ladder up top; no sign of law enforcement or mental health provider insignia; and (most importantly) no signs of blood spatter or mutilated body parts. It looked like he was telling the truth . . . or was that just what he wanted me to think . . .

I told myself that I was being ridiculous, that it was just the allergy-induced fuzzy-headedness distracting me, and what I needed to do was let the poor guy out then go get my medicine. I steeled myself and opened up the van door, backing quickly out of easy stabbing range as I did so. The newly freed man thanked me, saying he'd been in there for 15 or 20 minutes, and then moved to the front of his van. I went briskly into CVS, ears peeled for any hint that I might have unwittingly unleashed the next Jason Voorhees on the public. But of course, there was nothing: no cop sirens, no cries of horror, no screams of "No, no, he's free, some fool has brought death down upon us all!" so I just got my pills and headed home, feeling slightly silly at my overactive imagination. Then I related the story to a couple of different people who each said they thought I was crazy for opening the door with nobody else around.

Nice to know I'm not the only paranoiac on the block.