Duel

The best thing about going to a movie alone is that there's nobody bugging me to leave during the credits.

I left the theater at about 1:20am. My dorm lies not even a block away, but I didn't want to go back yet. Returning to my room would effectively end the night, and something in me felt incomplete. This is not an uncommon feeling, but the ending of a story always pronounces this sensation. I decided that the only thing that would fill this void - or I suppose the only thing to help me accept it - was the sight of the river.

Walking by my dorm at this hour necessitates coming to terms with scum incarnate. The Gypsy bar, about five or six doors down, is a popular hot spot for those without shame or dignity. Taxis constantly deposit and recycle these vermin from whatever hell-maw brought them to this plane onto the curb up and down the block. Limousines, as well. Yes - limousines to a bar. Only the best for these miserable little piles of secrets. I looked up at my dorm from the busy sidewalk as though from the bottom of Hell and realized that every night I go to sleep less then half a block from the City of Dis.

I walked swiftly towards the Public Garden. Here is the most marvelous place in the city, and yet so many people wish to waste their nights in sweaty holes like the Gypsy. However, seeing those putrid sacks of flesh reminded me of souls other than my own. I reached in my pocket for my cell phone, hoping that maybe someone left a message for me while I was watching The Prestige, though wholly expecting nothing of the sort.

Highlighting the screen with a tap of the button on the side, I found that a voice message was logged at 12:52am. Eun said she would call some time, and I beamed in anticipation. As I went through the process to access the message, I become more and more reluctant to listen to it. It would be wonderful to hear her voice, but I wasn't really sure I wanted to hear what she had to say, as there was a rather good chance that whatever it was would keep me up for the night, either out of worry, guilt or nostalgia.

It was not Eun. It was Lawrence. I nearly didn't recognize his voice. Its pitch had been raised by some sort of humbling sorrow. I hoped that he was just tired, but he was in fact rather troubled. As I walked listening to him, I thought it would be therapeutic to talk to him as I sat on the pier at the river, but he said it would be best to call during the day, and then he left a phone number with no area code. He bid me a happy Saturday. It was Sunday now, which saddened me - it was that much closer to the day I would have to give my informative-persuasive speech. I hit what I thought was the button to save the message (instead, I deleted it) and then I hung up.

He said that he hoped I was doing better than he was. We were both alone, but I suppose the advantage to being alone in the city is that it's easier to get lost.

As I drew to the Fielder footbridge, I smelled the odor of pot and saw a small group of people coming down the bridge. I had no desire to pass by them and suffer possible jeers, so I forewent the footbridge and walked briskly across the turnpike to the esplanade. A woman was coming in the opposite direction, and I suddenly grew aware of my grizzled and vaguely sinister appearance. I had no desire to frighten her, so I looked down at the ground and quickened my pace.

A tallish figure on a flimsy bike, wrapped in black hat and black scarf, pedaled ever so slowly over the bridge connecting the two sides of the esplanade. We passed each other, and I saw the pier in the distance, which was my destination. Midway over the bridge, I sensed the biker behind me again, who had reversed his/her (its) direction. I expected the biker to pass me again, but instead, it slowed to a pace matching my own. It took me a moment to realize that it was consciously following me.

The pier was a dead end. You don't walk into a dead end when you're being followed by a stranger; I knew that much. Instead, I took a left onto the path following the inside of the esplanade. I fought the desire to look behind me - to a predator, curiosity is synonymous with fear. Instead, I walked on, sticking my hand into my jacket in such a way to suggest that I was packing heat - it wouldn't fool anybody, of course. After a moment, a realized that the biker had taken the path by the river which ran parallel to the path that I followed. I figured at that point that maybe the whole stalking thing was in my head. Maybe the biker was just drunk. Still, I had about enough.

I glanced over. The biker was still taking a very easy pace, only a little faster than me now. Then I looked ahead. There was a bridge that I could take to get back to the other side of the esplanade. As I plotted my escape route, I realized that right in front of the bridge, the biker's path and my path conjoined. Was this planned? Was I walking into a trap?

Just as I figured this out, the biker stopped under the dark trees by the bridge and stood straddling the bike. I could see that he was male now based on his size and stature. He stood, looking either at me or past me. I was too fearful to return the gaze. I could either cross the bridge here, or walk further past him and take the bridge lay down a ways. He was not blocking the bridge, but crossing it meant turning my back on him again. I opted to pass him. I was not sure how I should react to his presence - whether to stare into nothing and disregard him, or recognize him.

I drew near to him. I nodded. Not quite in his direction, but it was definitely a nod.

I walked the next stretch by the river. For a minute, I did not hear him. And then a ways behind me, I heard the pedaling. I was scared as I became aware that I was a sitting duck on this long stretch, stuck between the river and the stream dividing the esplanade. If it came down to it, what should I do? Kick the bike with all my strength, hope he falls and make a break for it? I recalled when I once asked my brother, John and Rick Warren what the best course of action would be if somebody held you up for your belongings on the street, and I suggested lunging for the assailant's legs. They told me that would definitely get me killed, and that anyone who valued their life would just hand over the money.

The biker passed me leisurely. As I envisioned our next confrontation on the road ahead, I decided that any attempt at combat was out of the question. As Merlin told Arthur, the scabbard is greater than the sword. The only reason I was being treated as prey is because I was acting like prey. I began to think about what my dad told me about elements of intimidation. I had to get closer to the biker mentally, and I had to conceal my fear.

He was stopped again under the trees by the next bridge. I widened my stride. I took a big breath and hacked a few deep, guttural coughs into my sleeve. I spat straight into the pavement. I smiled to myself and walked straight over the bridge. He was not following me.

Michael Caine said to be like a duck. "Calm on the surface, but always paddling like the dickens underneath." As an actor, this has become my new mantra.



This story was not nearly as poignant as I had hoped.