Harley's Angel

We're gonna suffocate in this pit.

My breath came in ragged gasps as I held onto Jenni and pushed our way through the crowd. Forget the Big Apple—Atlanta had the Peach Drop. It was New Year's Eve in the early 90s. I was young, hanging out with friends at Atlanta's Underground to watch the 4th annual event, when an angel saved my life.

Let me take you there if you've never been to Atlanta's Underground. Follow the famous Peachtree Street a few blocks south of Downtown Atlanta, where it veers off at an awkward angle. Walk down a massive series of wide concrete steps sandwiched between Peachtree and Pryor Streets, leading you to a submerged brick courtyard flanked by a wall of doors on the far side. The patio is basically a pit with doors on one side and stairs up to the street on the other.

Notice the words "Shops, Restaurants, Entertainment" floating above on ribbon-shaped signs. Pull the heavy doors and enter a city beneath the city. Picture an underground mall spanning four or five city blocks. It's dark down there, with retail shops, food vendors, and stalls taking up every square inch of space. Under your feet are brick walkways reminiscent of the colonial era. Above you, massive concrete cross beams and exposed industrial fixtures loom. Above them rise the buildings of Atlanta's cultural district.

If you're claustrophobic, you should turn back now. The deeper you go, the more closed in you feel. Atlanta's Underground was once a bustling, family-friendly cultural center on any weekend. On New Year's Eve in 1992? Authorities estimate over 100,000 partiers attended, including yours truly and my friends Stacey & Jenni.

My high school friends and I often enjoyed weekend adventures in the North Georgia mountains, at the Renaissance Fair, the lake, or hanging out at each other's homes. We'd never ventured into the city together before. If you were to spot us that New Year's Eve, you'd see three bright-eyed teenagers out for some fun. Stacey and I were about the same height—pretty tall for girls our age. Despite her size, Stacey was the gentlest soul with the sweetest disposition. Jenni was tiny—five foot three if that—but she was the strongest and most formidable of the trio.

I remember admiring a blue glass vase in a little homewares shop within the underground mall when Jenni put her hand on my shoulder. "We'd better go scope out a good viewing spot in the courtyard. It's almost time." Ever the leader, our diminutive friend looked at her watch, then swiveled her head in search of Stacey, who was busy joking with the shopkeeper, a pretty shopping bag swinging from her elbow.

"Stace? Ready to go?" Our jovial friend returned, holding up the green tea towel set she'd bought. "Momma will love this."

"Aww, you're such a good daughter. C'mon, let's go." We shuffled out of the store, and a wave of people carried us along toward the exit.

Once we settled into a prime spot in the plaza—directly below the newly installed tower that would drop the enormous peach to the crowd's delight—we relaxed and enjoyed the house music blaring from the speakers. People streamed into the courtyard over the next hour, filling out the crowd. The piazza was packed.

Around eleven thirty and without warning, a boisterous group of party-goers pushed out of the Underground, heaving the massive doors into the people assembled on the patio. Angry faces looked over their shoulders at the painful intrusion, yelling and cursing at the newcomers. But they didn't stop coming. More and more revelers streamed through the doors, but there was nowhere for them to go. The courtyard was packed from the doors to the left and the stairs on the right, leading to street level.

The growing mob pressed into the assembly with a steady force like a tide coming ashore, powerless to stop its celestial pull. We were in a pit. A vast, swelling mosh-pit full of angry, anxious, drunk, and disoriented celebrants.

Something tugged at Stacey's shopping bag full of Momma's green tea towels. Someone's watch had caught on the bag. Stacey tightened her grip on the treasure before it disappeared into the fray. She held it close to her chest and met my eyes above Jenni's head. She was nervous. I felt it, too—a frantic energy seeping up from the floor into our feet and propelling us to move. It was a fight-or-flight instinct, but Stacey and I were often overly dramatic. We looked to our captain for assurance. If Jenni was calm, then we had nothing to worry about. She wasn't.

Jenni was angry. "Hey, oy, watch it!" She swatted the groping hand of a leering man away from her bum, gracing the perp with a menacing stare that would turn a soldier's knees to jelly. Jenni was born and raised in the Atlanta suburbs, but her people hail from the Bronx. Managing a raucous city crowd was magically knit into the very fabric of Jenni's DNA.

The tide swelled higher. Before I could congratulate Jenni on her successful defensive action, I felt a jolt to the side of my body. I was pushed a few paces away from my friends but didn't fall. Within seconds, we were crammed together with strangers—a tin of sardines. I remember looking into the dark brown eyes of a thirty-something woman—her nostrils flaring in fear—and thinking, "I'm now intimately aware of the color of this woman's irises, and I don't even know her name." It was absurd. It was also dangerous.

This was a mob. I imagined Alexander Hamilton laughing, "I told you, the people are turbulent. Didn't you believe me?" My mind was whirling, and I couldn't breathe. Someone's shoulder pressed into my chest. I inhaled through my nose and quickly regretted it. A miasma of smells assaulted my senses—sweat, B.O., tacky jasmine perfume, cigarettes, and the acrid scent of fear. My body moved without my permission—pushed, pulled, and prodded by the horde. My cells joined those of my partners in this otherworldly dance, morphing into a new, massive body that jerked around the piazza on fresh, spindly legs as it took its first lumbering steps.

Jenni let out a startled cry. Caught a few layers of human flesh before me, she was shrinking. No, my mind was confused. She wasn't shrinking. The crowd was pulling her under. The whites of her eyes shone in the dark—terrified of being lost—drowning in this sweaty sea of humanity. Her look of panic was warranted. If she went under, they'd trample her. She'd suffocate. We both knew it.

How did this happen?

I snapped my mind out of its bewilderment, located Stacey to my right, and jammed my arm through the swarm, reaching Jenni with my fingertips, my chin digging into the dark-eyed woman before me. Grabbing my friend, by some miracle, I hoisted her out of the fray and landed her behind me. She clung to my back for dear life. Stacey and I locked eyes—this time not in fear but determination. Jenni and I had almost reached her when someone violently jostled us backward. Refusing to lose my forward motion, I yelled, "No! I have to get Jenni out of here." I battled my way forward with all my strength, but it was useless. The frenzy around me would destroy us. People were in a full-fledged panic. Some were crying, others screaming. I lost sight of Stacey a few steps ahead of us—closer to the stairs—to escape.

I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer for rescue. I labored to suck in a deep breath and smelled—leather.

Leather?

My eyes popped open to see a wall of oiled brown leather in front of my nose. I could almost taste it. A Harley-Davidson jacket covered the most enormous shoulders I'd ever seen. A giant was standing directly before me, my face pressed into his back. Where did he come from? I swear he wasn't there a second ago.

The leviathan started to move. Jenni was still hanging on me like a child. I placed my hands on the behemoth. He moved forward. I remembered playing the children's game where each kid put their hands on the person in front of them and pretended to be a train. Choo-choo!

As God did for Moses, the colossus parted the sea. He paved the way for Jenni and me to reach the stairs, where we spotted Stacey anxiously scanning the crowd. She crushed us in a bear hug, sobbing into our hair. "I thought I'd lost you." People were still screaming behind us, desperate to reach freedom—air. I broke free of Stacey's embrace and looked around—the mountainous Harley angel was gone.

Stacey slung her coveted bag of tea towels over her shoulder and took a deep breath. "C'mon. Let's go home." We trotted toward the train station, eager to escape the rabble, all thoughts of the Peach Drop forgotten.

"Did you see the size of that guy?" I panted as we settled into the metro. Jenni and Stacey sat on each side of me. "What guy?"

"The big Harley dude who got us out of there." My friends exchanged a questioning glance.

"Not sure what you're talking about, Erica. There was definitely no Harley guy."

I looked at Stacey, holding onto her Momma's tea towels, a tentative smile on her face, and Jenni, looking as though she'd just cheated death and was mad about it. They hadn't seen him. Had I?

Yes. Not only had I seen him, but I'd smelled him and felt his solid, reassuring bulk beneath my fingers. He'd been as real as my friends and I. And he'd been an angel.