On June 21, I walked into Rosie’s lunch counter in Lovell, Maine (population 1,140), for a burger to go. The waitress had just taken my order when a young man outside struck the plate glass window using a knobbed instrument with flayers at the end. The impact concussed like a cherry bomb and startled everyone. The pane shook but held.
The boy — 18 to 22? — wore a white hoodie with “AEROPOSTALE” across the chest. He had a pointy, Basil Rathbone face. Tall and skinny, black-haired and sullen, he hinted at Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, too, the Boston Marathon nihilist. And like Tsarnaev, the Lovell kid had empty eyes, which I followed carefully as he entered. (Long ago two men mugged me at shotgun point.) He threw a metal basket of whoopie pies at a woman behind the counter. I feared she was going to topple into the bubbling fry-o-lator behind her. She didn’t, but a whoopie pie crash-landed in the boiling oil.
Then, using the device he’d employed on the plate glass, a weighted, 15-inch club-and-whip combo resembling an aboriginal weapon (or a sex toy in a dominatrix scenario), the boy nailed my head from behind.
Immediately a resourceful team handled the aftermath: three medics in an ambulance, police, Rosie’s staff and other helpers, including a handy sketch artist. A waitress characterized the assailant while the sketcher, a regular customer, not a cop, whipped up an amazing likeness on a paper placemat.
Another customer, lovely Tammy, sat me down, cleaned the wound, applied ice to my skull. Thanks to her firm help, there was no egg, just a small bleed that would scab. The EMTs took my vitals. I felt OK. The other victim suffered only small bruises from the tossed metal basket.
As the kid went to his car, I had tried to photograph him with my point-and-shoot, the kind of camera you hardly have to aim. Adrenaline unsteadied the shot, and I captured only my Honda CR-V and pavement, an embarrassing miss.
The attacker took off south, tires squealing. His car fishtailed past others from the inside, careering wildly on the shoulder. Gravel flew in comet tails.
A bystander caught the plate number. The store owner downloaded the boy’s picture from a security camera. Police whizzed north, somehow knowing the suspect doubled back. Listening on an official frequency, the lead EMT surmised an imminent arrest. Officers caught the guy in about an hour, thanks to the generous actions of many.
Tidy, professional, relieving.
Some witnesses said my eyeing the thug prevented a robbery or worse. But I prevented nothing. My wariness perhaps agitated him, accelerated his scoot. Regardless, my mistake was to turn toward the counter momentarily, not wanting my staring to provoke the boy as he was leaving. That’s when he conked me roundhouse. Had he sliced an eye or my jugular, the story might be different.
The deputy who took my statement learned the suspect had “mental issues.” Whatever justice is meted, I have forgiven the boy and hope strong elements of treatment and rehabilitation will prevail. His closest must help him acknowledge responsibility. Then this gloomy washout must begin restructuring himself to something less reckless and mean, inch toward a rudimentary self-respect, earn a germ of happiness, be larger than he wants.
Go kind, young man, you won’t regret it.
Mostly my thoughts run to the people at Rosie’s and their exemplar of synchronicity — defined as spontaneous actions in harmony, no directions issued. Someone calls 911, another rings the owner, a person recites a description, one draws a picture, somebody memorizes a license plate, and (serendipity!) a sweet ministering angel floats in to tend the 68-year-old injured, who swoons (so slightly).
I loved that Rosie’s gave me a free cheeseburger. It was damn good. Get thee there and be chowed — and befriended.
I did not stay to learn how Maine’s legislated “state treat,” the whoopie pie, tasted deep-fried, but wouldn’t put it past the Legislature to research the matter.
The best takeaway was the sketcher’s summary of the attack: “The biggest thing to happen at Rosie’s in 50 years.” That was when Leonard, “a very large man, fainted, fell off his stool backwards and wiped out the chip rack.”
Ken Olson, retired president of Friends of Acadia, lives in Bass Harbor.