“I’m glad he’s dead! He took my pocketbook three weeks ago! He should’ve been dead! I’m glad he’s dead!”
Not quite “To be or not to be,” but close. Achingly close. Then, a Danish prince, wrestling with self-doubt. Now, a nobody who arguably just got out of bed. An anonymous victim. A woman of little consequence. Until now. Fed up, pushed to the brink, she’s ready for her close up. Her big debut before roaring crowds. Left penniless by the Giggler’s savagery, she’s fighting back in the only way she knows how: by taking pleasure in another’s pain. Schadenfreude, the American Way. Arms waving, as if channeling the holy ghost. Testimony, in the church of the streets. He stole her wallet. No one cared. The police yawned. In came Paul Kersey. Wilde in tow, spoiling for a fight. Ice cream purchased, camera as bait, the Giggler acted on instinct. Bullet in the back, reduced to a gurgling mess. Dead as dog meat. Cue our lovely lady of the night.
It’s telling that she repeats the phrase “He took my pocketbook three weeks ago” both the night of and the morning after. Because folks have got to know. Same sentiment, different audience. First her peers; her comrades in arms. They too have had everything lifted, taken, and hauled away. They understand. The peanut gallery responds as they must, as if witnessing the Super Bowl. Because the death of a scumbag criminal is worth celebrating, with whistles and screams, if necessary. By the next day, she’s still on fire. Emerging from the mist as if a figure of legend, she harangues the cops for a job decidedly not done. It took an outsider. And she’s strutting her stuff without shame. I’m glad he’s dead. Three times, with feeling. Who could disagree? Crime cut in half with a single round. An African game cartridge, mind you, but it takes what it takes.
Just like the prior evening, when she roared “Right on!” not twice, but thrice. The scene shifted, but my guess is she didn’t stop for a good hour. Shouted herself hoarse. Took off that robe and got comfortable. Up and down that street of pain so the masses could get on board. A revolution was brewing, and I’ll credit Pocketbook Lady as much as Kersey himself. He supplied the firepower, but she provided the inspiration. For if you’re going to take up arms against a sea of troubles, you’re going to need a team. A band of brothers who once hid behind locked doors. Passive, now eager to kill. It takes a cheerleader. A voice in the darkness to let everyone know that it’s okay. Yes, my friends, okay to blow people away. Set traps. Blast the fuckers to hell. She’s the match that lit the vigilante flame. Rosa Parks, born anew.
Outside of her child-like glee at a man’s last breath, we know little about Pocketbook Lady. No history, no past. But what a future. Once you’ve been radicalized, there’s no going back. Too slight to handle a Wilde herself, maybe she can organize. Lend her shabby apartment to the cause. Meetings, maybe a bomb-building party or two. Now that she has the taste, she’s not slipping away anytime soon. Had the film become a series, we’d have seen her again. Up front and center, to match that effortless charm. Joy like that doesn’t often exist, and without fuel, it’ll burn out. That’s why the ensuing conflagration was so necessary. So vital to what will have to be done in the months and years to follow. And it all ended with Fraker’s reduction from a whole man to bite-sized chunks. A steaming pile of ash and flame amidst the rubble of a generation. From her beaming smile to the shriek of a gangster’s side piece, cast adrift with stunning suddenness.
Number One with a Google Search, and rightfully so
As we remember her, forever and always enshrined in the Cooperstown of 80’s Action, let us revere most of all her unapologetic glee. Her refusal to insist that an eye for an eye must be proportional. He stole a cheap wallet, maybe a few bucks, and for that, he must lie rotting and stinking in the earth. The death penalty for a petty crime. Cut in half for the audacity of a misdemeanor. But that’s why we love her. When so many are inclined to forgive and pray for justice, here we have a figure reduced to the very essence of the human experience: vengeance, bloodlust, and naked desire. He struck first, and I’ll decide on the terms. The society we claim to fear, but secretly all want. On this day, one woman stood up. And made it impossible to sit back down.
Leave a Reply