In the John O’Hara classic novel "Appointment in Samarra," a merchant visiting Baghdad sent his servant to market for supplies. The servant returned visibly shaken and terrified. He told his master that he had been jostled by a woman who then made a threatening gesture at him. The woman turned out to be Death. He begged his master for a horse to flee home to Samarra. After seeing the servant off, the merchant went to the marketplace, found the woman and asked why she had threatened his servant. Death said that she had made no threats; she was simply astonished to see his servant in Baghdad because she had an appointment with him later that night in Samarra.

My appointment could have easily been a hot Los Angeles night. The whole day had been strange. It was like being inside a house of mirrors at a carnival where each mirror distorted reality and perception. It was the kind of day when you can’t stop thinking about a song, and then as you turn on the ignition of your car, the song is playing on the radio. The universe seemed out of kilter.

It was a Wednesday night which meant level-three aerobics at 24-hour fitness on Century Blvd. One of the instructors insisted that this class was a 1000 calorie work-out. I had long gotten past the aches and pains of being out of shape. We all felt like walking on air from the endorphin high when the class ended.

On the way back to my car I sensed that someone was behind me, walking step for step. Worse yet, it sounded like he was deliberately trying to walk softly as to not be noticed. The chill that ran up and down my spine made me walk slightly faster toward the Carl’s Jr. restaurant less than a block away. As I stopped for the crosswalk, I felt something brush against my collar, and as I spun around in an attack position, with fists clenched, prepared to defend myself, there was nothing there. I became angry with myself.

I could hear my own heart beat as I took a deep breath. The traffic light changed, and as I began to cross the street, the eerie feeling returned. I checked the crosswalk for traffic, crossed the street, and then went inside the Carl’s Jr. I bought a bottle of water. I sat there for a few minutes, drinking my water, thinking how silly I was being. I finished the water and headed toward my car.

I was parked on Airport Boulevard a block down from Century. As I approached the car, I noticed two young men walking down the sidewalk. I opened the hatchback of my mustang. One of them asked for directions to Century Blvd. Trying to be helpful, I replied … “it’s one block that way,” pointing south. When I looked back, I was staring down the barrel of a 9 millimeter Beretta. “Give me your wallet,” he said.

Time froze. Everything went quiet like watching an old black and white movie at 3 a.m. on TV and the projectionist loses the sound. It was like being in parallel worlds with one foot in the present and one foot in the universe which was the theatre of my memories

I remembered when I was about 13 getting home from duck hunting on a rainy 25 degree morning. I was freezing cold and wet and opened the door to the warm den with a roaring fire in the fireplace that fogged my glasses. The smell of mom’s freshly baked home made bread permeated the soothing warm air.

Next I remembered a long drought ending unexpectantly on a hot dusty day when a summer shower appeared from nowhere. I remember how it cleansed the air and quenched the thirst of the trees and flowers and grass as they seemed to proudly rejoice with every life-giving drop.

I remembered how much I loved listening to the rain. My girlfriend and I went to the screen porch to sit on the old couch and listen. As we reclined, she put her head on my chest and said she could hear my heart beating. She later whispered “it’s a good heart” as the melodic rhythm of soft rain made us both drowsy.

The smell of gunpowder from the muzzle of the Berretta brought me back to the present. Only a second or so had passed. I thought, “someone shot this gun today, not long ago.“

I smiled and said “no worries; I’ll give you everything I have.” I slowly reached for my wallet, opened it, and took out all I had: a $20 bill. I showed the gunman the empty wallet and said “I swear man this is all I have.” The gunman nodded.

The second man reached for my gym bag. I was grateful that he was not the gunman because he was pathetic little punk who would jump out of his skin if you said “boo” too loudly. He was a big man as long as his friend was toting a gun. It is hard to imagine anything more dangerous than a coward with a gun in an intense situation. He seemed like the type to shoot at ghosts with no regard for innocent bystanders. I gruffly replied “you want my dirty underwear?”

I looked at the gunman and said “thank you” as I slowly began walking around the other side of the car. They both turned and ran towards their rust-colored Honda Civic parked around the corner. After they sped away, I drove a block down the street to a Texaco station to call the police.

To my surprise the police arrived almost immediately. The first officer asked me what happened, then he asked me to tell the story again to his partner. Chances are that this is standard procedure to later compare stories for consistency. After I told the second officer, who was Latino, that the bandits were Hispanic he said “Well, I would hate to have anyone pulled over by mistake.” This truly angered me because the perpetrators might have been captured if the police had acted immediately. I didn’t realize at the time that anger would follow me for a long time afterwards.

I had nightmares for months following the incident. I felt violated. I saw myself as helpless and weak. In my dreams I’d see myself in a kung-fu movie where I’d take the gun away and beat them both senseless. More often than not, however, I’d wake up with fists clenched, heart racing, soaking in sweat, screaming “You Son of a Bitch.”

Dr. Christian Hart, a clinical psychologist and Santa Monica College professor, specializes in post traumatic stress disorder. Dr Hart said that when someone experiences a life threatening event it is common to feel resentment, anger and to second guess your actions. He said most people think “what could I have done differently? But you must remember that someone with a gun probably will use it if challenged.” He further said that compliance is usually the best course of action.

Don’t think this could not happen to you. The Department of Justice reports violent crimes occur almost twice as often for those ages 19-24 than that of any other age group. The murder rate is 44% higher for ages 20 to 34 years old.

Sergeant Renald Thruston of Santa Monica Police agreed with Dr. Hart. He said “I am not aware of any study or statistics, but the best chance of your surviving a violent confrontation, someone who is attempting to rob you, is to comply with their order and do not become combative or argumentative.” There are no guarantees, however. He further said “hopefully the person will get what they want and leave and then you can later report the crime and become a good witness for us to help apprehend the person. “

No one can be sure whether I escaped death because I cooperated, due to random chance, or because of some greater force. The experts tell us that submitting to the assailant dramatically increases the chance of survival. It took a while for me to lose the anger, eventually realize that nothing is more precious than life itself, and the instinct for survival is probably the greatest force on earth.

There is no way to prepare for this kind of event. In the final analysis, we can be certain of only one thing: however mighty or meek, beautiful or homely, rich or poor, and would that it be later rather than sooner, we all have an appointment in Samarra.

Carpe Diem.