In the 1980s, the Sydney suburb of Darlinghurst was less a neighborhood and more a powder keg - heroin batches arrived with the regularity of buses, overdoses were a grim local sport, and yet somehow the place also nurtured a thriving scene of underground filmmakers, club kids, and people who looked fabulous while dancing their butts off. Among them was a 23-year-old woman - quite pretty, a hip underground darling - who learned that living there meant growing up fast.
One night, after clubbing on Oxford Street, she decided to walk home. The moon was slender and unhelpful. Soon she felt footsteps behind her, turned, saw no one, yelled "Is anyone there?" - no answer. She armed herself with keys between her fingers, walking faster, sure someone was lurking.
Then a taxi pulled up. Inside: an older businessman in the back. The driver told her to get in. She'd dealt with plenty of entitled men who thought a lone young woman was fair game, so she refused - no money, live just around the corner, leave me alone. The driver insisted. "There's somebody following you," he said. He explained they'd been watching the stalker, who ran off whenever she stopped. "He has no good intentions. You need to get in this cab and we're going to take you home."
Stunned, she got in. They dropped her at her door and didn't pull away until she was safely inside with her housemates. She never learned their names, but she's pretty sure they saved her life. After that, no more walking home alone in the dark. Some guardian angels don't even ask for a tip.