Late Night Encounter
Well that was an interesting experience.
I park in Bridgeland because of the flooded parking garage. To return home, I walk south across the Bow via Langevin Bridge. My place is right on the border between ritzy riverfront condos and the still-skeezy areas of the East Village; I’m never out of sight of the drop-in centre.
I’m out late, returning home after midnight. It’s been a tough day, but I just
At the entrance to the bridge walkway there’s a guy standing; more people are in the shadows of the trees nearby, talking to themselves. He’s wearing a worn sweater and jeans: not well dressed, but not ragged either. He’s got a beer in his hand. He spots me.
There’s no other way to cross the river by foot for a mile in either direction. My car is at least a five-minute walk back. There’s no other cars around. The business are closed; there are no houses.
I’ve got my nice leather jacket, a backpack on my back with my iPad, phone in my pocket, and enough cash in my wallet that I’d be upset losing it. Nothing I could use as a weapon. I’m not imposing in the least.
I know what this could turn into. It’s either turn around and come directly back the way I came… or proceed. I choose the latter. I’m still not sure why.
He comes up to me. “Hey man, how are you doing?” Alcohol on his breath… but he’s not staggeringly drunk.
“I’m doing good. How are you?” I’m alert, but smiling, and calm. My heartbeat is normal, muscles even, awareness is good. I can see three more guys off to the side. There is, at least, lots of room right here to maneuver.
“You got a smoke?”
“No man, sorry, I don’t smoke.”
“Why are you out here tonight.”
“I’m just headed back home.”
“You live over here?”
“Yeah, right over there, in that tower.” I point to my building across the river.
He looks me over. “What do you do for a living man?”
I think for a split second what to say. My brain doesn’t come up with anything particularly good. “I’m a computer programmer.”
“You make good money?” I’m still calm.
“I do all right.”
“How much have you had to drink?”
Here I’ve got a good answer. “Not a drop. I don’t drink.”
“What’s your name?”
“Craig.” And then I get an idea. “What’s your name?”
He pauses. I can see the wheels in his mind turning. He’s making a decision.
“Go ahead.” He waves me to the bridge path. “Craig is cool. He can go.”
“Thanks man.” And I’m on my way. He flashes me a peace sign as I pass; I return it to him. I say “I’ll see ya around.” And there’s a chance I might. I walk the rest of my journey home, unaccosted, smiling, under a very pleasant night’s sky.
I’m ultimately a farm boy, and after that a suburbanite. This sort of thing is out of my element. I don’t truly feel how stupidly close to a problem I came. I don’t yet know what I’ll do differently or how I’ll change my plan the next time something like this happens. (And there’s a chance it will.)
But I do know one thing. Being able to genuinely live without fear is a wonderful thing.