Walking home late at night, ahead of me under the dim glow of a street light, I saw a man coming towards me.
As he trudged forward, he spotted a jacket on the ground. People frequently scavenge around this part of town, so it wasn’t odd when he bent down, picked it up, and kept slogging along with his head hung low. Coming closer to me, I realized the sheer size of this man. He was at least a foot taller than me, and 100lbs heavier.
When he was no more than four feet in front of me, he jerked his arms up, holding up the jacket, and politely asked, “Is this your size?”
Confused, I replied, “No, it’s not.”
A switch flipped in him.
He screamed, “IS THIS YOUR SIZE?!?”
He dropped the jacket and brought up his fists, his eyes pulsing with the unmistakable look of bloodlust. Within the span of two seconds, I checked the road, saw it was empty, and sprinted across while he screamed, “YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE.”
On the other side, I whipped my head around. He was still just standing on his side of the street. Without thinking I shouted, “Fuck you, man! Get out of here! Go home!”
We stared each other down. Eventually, he turned away and moseyed along. I continued walking home, anxiously checking behind me every few seconds. After a few minutes, my adrenaline stopped pumping, and I began to process what had just happened. Two thoughts emerged.
The first thought was about self-preservation. Had that hulk of a man not revealed his craziness and just kept walking until he was right next to me, he could have easily body-slammed me into the iron bars of the fence next to the sidewalk, knocked me off my feet, and then pummeled me to death. I’m strong, but there’s a reason weight classes exist in fighting sports. Upon thinking this, I suddenly empathized with the quiet and restrained terror women are forced to stomach as they stay vigilant of strangers who may suddenly inflict violence upon them.
The second thought I had was about some vocabulary I learned in a business law class I once took: ‘battery’ is physically harming someone, whereas ‘assault’ is creating a reasonable fear of immediate violence.
I just got assaulted.
Fuck that guy, I thought, how dare he assault me. I’ve walked home at night for years without any problems, and now he’s causing me to doubt my safety. Again, I thought about the female experience and how they must feel after being assaulted, drugged, or raped—their view of the world shifting evermore towards viewing strangers as potential criminals waiting to prey on them.
The next day, I recounted my story to a couple friends. I wondered aloud: can I safely walk home at night anymore? Do I need to get a weapon: pepper spray, a taser, a knife? Does having a weapon even matter if someone suddenly ambushes me?
One of my friends, well-intentioned, said to me, “I’m sure that guy didn’t mean it. He was crazy. You don’t need to fear walking at night for the rest of your life. You’re probably fine.” My other friend said, “Are you a fucking idiot? Some homeless people are crazy lunatics and will just murder you. He needs to carry a weapon or start driving to places. He could have died.”
One of them: the primordial voice of freedom, expression, and chaos.
The other: the ancient tribal voice calling for security, control, and order.
Their comments have been swirling around in my head for days now.
Have a great night, brother!
My friend and I were roaming downtown when a drifter asked us for a dollar. I told him, “not tonight,” and my friend quickly added, “and have a great night, brother!” The drifter smiled, “Thanks, you too man!”
I…wasn't expecting that from my friend. He took what's normally a shameful ritual, and by injecting humanity into it, turned it into a neighborly greeting.
I’ve added this to my repertoire, and now when a beggar asks me if I have a dollar, I respond with, “No, but have a great night, brother!”
They always appreciate it.
The Porcupine
Drunk and journeying home from a club at 1AM, I suddenly hear the sound of metal scraping on concrete.
There’s a man stumbling down the street, dragging a thick metal rod behind him.
My senses are dulled. Yet, I’m also alert and ready to sprint if he does anything remotely aggressive. The seductive pull of my bed is causing me to override my better judgment: I will continue inching forward along the sidewalk, instead of turning around and going the long way home.
Just when I’m about to move forward, from behind him I notice a local homeless woman approaching him. I’ve seen her around town and I always steer clear of her because of how she looks: she’s skinny with a shaved head and speed-walks with bare feet, looking like she has just escaped from a mental asylum.
She comes up beside the man and says to him, “Hey, are you okay?”
I’ve never heard her speak—she has a pleasant voice.
“Yeah,” he replies. Looking concerned, she continues, “I heard you got attacked, how are you doing?”
Oh.
They know each other.
That's the only snippet of conversation I hear as I scurry past them, my ears still blaring from the club music, my head pulsing from the alcohol.
I feared that man. I thought he could have been an aggressor. Now I’m feeling bad. It must be terrifying to be attacked. The metal rod, I’m realizing, isn't a weapon to attack someone with—it’s the quill of a scared porcupine.
Fuck, I'm drunk, and I'm feeling empathetic. Life always knows how to throw a curve ball of expectations. Good night, I'm stumbling off to bed now.
My typical walk home from the gym
The following happened all within ten minutes.
Straddled over his bike, a shirtless, flabby, leathery-skinned man grimaced as he descended the hilltop by my gym. He couldn’t ride down normally because he was holding back a heavy shopping cart in his right hand, and steering the bike with his left hand. He waddled his way down, while balancing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth—quite the circus act.
His weary eyes met mine, then he asked me, “Can you help me with my lady’s cart?” Behind him, hunched over a walker, a frail woman without an ounce of fat on her shuffled forward with hollow eyes. Alerted to my presence, an expression of terror took her face hostage.
Looking back at the leathery-skinned man, I said, “Sure, I’ll help you with the cart.”
I led the cart down the hill. As I marched back up, I approached his lady. She couldn’t have been more than 40 years old—I found it odd to see her using a walker. The words anorexia nervosa flickered across my mind.
I smiled and waved at her. She skirted to the farthest edge of the sidewalk. Her terrified eyes flitted at me while she hissed, “Stay away from me! Stay away from me!” God only knows what violent imagery haunts her when she closes her eyes.
At the top of the hill is a tunnel, colloquially known as Pee Tunnel (on account of the yellow painted walls and the pungent odor). As I journeyed through it, I noticed a fresh pile of human shit in the middle of it. I held my breath and stepped over it.
Once through Pee Tunnel, there’s a railing next to the sidewalk that encloses a tiny space. You would have to hop over the railing to get to the other side. Yet, inexplicably, there’s a legless man sitting on a motorized wheelchair in that tiny space. How did he get there? Did someone lift his wheelchair and put him there? What the actual fuck?
The legless man was smoking something. I’m not sure what, as it didn’t smell like cigarettes or marijuana. Then he handed it to a guy on my side of the railing, who then sauntered in front of me with the drug still lit. I was trailing this guy for about a block, trying not to inhale his fumes, when from behind me I heard someone yell, “BEEP BEEP!”
Inside Pee Tunnel, a woman on a bike was coasting towards us. Even though she was far away, she continued to yell, “BEEP BEEP,” every five seconds. When she got close, I stepped off the sidewalk for her. She passed me and said, “Thank you very much! God bless you.”
The man ahead of me, lost in a drug-induced reverie, didn’t hear her yelling and they nearly collided.
To escape his fume trails, I strided quickly past him and glanced at his face—he looked like Lennie from Of Mice and Men petting the rabbits.
A block later, I encountered a stocky, disheveled woman with tears in her eyes. I smiled at her sympathetically. She looked up at me with big puppy dog eyes and nervously said, “Excuse me.”
“What’s up?” I said.
Her face suddenly gnarled into a look of contempt. “By the way,” she spat, “I’m not one of those dirty homeless people.”
I squinted at her. “Umm. Okay.”
“I’m…” she looked away and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m trying to find a domestic abuse shelter. My abuser was just released from jail and I don’t know what to do. He keeps attacking me and my two daughters.”
I suddenly remembered something. All my sympathy drained away. I now felt complete apathy towards her. Annoyed, really.
She continued, “It’s a Sunday, so the domestic abuse shelters aren’t open. The only thing available around here for me and my two daughters is the local motel. It costs 23 dollars and 11 cents, and I’m short 8 dollars and 16 cents. I don’t know what to do.”
“Uh huh… Well, I’m just coming back from the gym and don’t have my wallet on me. I wish I could help. Good luck to you!”
I’m not heartless. Six months ago she pulled the same routine on me and I gave her $25 after hearing her sad story. Back then she claimed that she only had one daughter. Now she apparently has two daughters? I talked to my gym friends and they’ve also heard her spiel. One friend has been approached by her three times in the last year. On the third time, he told her that he doubted her story, to which she berated him and called him a “faggot”.
I continued my walk home from the gym.
On the next block, I spotted a mound of blankets. The only reason I knew there was a human underneath it was because I could see two dirty feet sticking out, being burned by the midafternoon sunlight. As I passed the mound, I stepped off the sidewalk to allow a man on a bike to pass. He was missing most of his teeth and sobbing profusely.
Finally, on the last block before my apartment, I saw an intimidating shirtless guy with sunglasses and tattooed arms repeatedly picking up a stick. At first, I thought he was practicing a stabbing motion. But when I looked closer, I realized he was just trying to balance the stick on his index finger, like a little kid might do to have fun.
Catman
Along my favorite running path just outside the city, there’s a half-mile stretch of land where feral cats hang out. Every 200 feet, there are two bowls on the side of the path: one filled with kibble, the other with fresh water. I say hello to the cats when I pass them. I’ve been running on this path for years, but I never knew who took care of them, until today. As I was chugging along the path this morning, that’s when I saw him. Catman.
He was cresting over a hill, the morning sun illuminating him like a golden god.
Riding a single speed bike, his lanky legs were forced to jut out and pedal diagonally to make room for the massive plastic bags hanging from each handlebar. He veered to and fro about the path, struggling to stay upright while he cruised along.
From a distance, I watched him sway to the side of the path, dismount from his trusty steed, pull from the plastic bags a giant two-liter jug of water and a bag of kibble, and fill the cats’ bowls. Then he jumped back on his steed and pushed off, wobbling from the uneven distribution of weight on his handlebars. He pedaled for another 100 meters until he reached the next set of cat bowls, repeating his divine act of providence.
Upon watching this, in that moment I christened him “Catman”.
I had so many questions for Catman: where did these cats come from? When did you start taking care of them? Do you have names for them, and if so, how do you remember all their names?
After a moment of reflection, I decided, no, I’m not going to ask Catman any questions. I’d rather it be a mystery for me to ponder.
When Catman approached me, he beamed me a wide, toothless smile and said, “Good morning!” I greeted him back and waved. Catman did not wave back as he would have lost his balance on his trusty steed. Then he wobbled down the path until he turned a corner and was out of sight.
I never saw Catman again. But the cats’ bowls are always full every time I run by.
Walking home late at night, ahead of me under the dim glow of a street light, I saw a man coming towards me.
As he trudged forward, he spotted a jacket on the ground. People frequently scavenge around this part of town, so it wasn’t odd when he bent down, picked it up, and kept slogging along with his head hung low. Coming closer to me, I realized the sheer size of this man. He was at least a foot taller than me, and 100lbs heavier.
When he was no more than four feet in front of me, he jerked his arms up, holding up the jacket, and politely asked, “Is this your size?”
Confused, I replied, “No, it’s not.”
A switch flipped in him.
He screamed, “IS THIS YOUR SIZE?!?”
He dropped the jacket and brought up his fists, his eyes pulsing with the unmistakable look of bloodlust. Within the span of two seconds, I checked the road, saw it was empty, and sprinted across while he screamed, “YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE.”
On the other side, I whipped my head around. He was still just standing on his side of the street. Without thinking I shouted, “Fuck you, man! Get out of here! Go home!”
We stared each other down. Eventually, he turned away and moseyed along. I continued walking home, anxiously checking behind me every few seconds. After a few minutes, my adrenaline stopped pumping, and I began to process what had just happened. Two thoughts emerged.
The first thought was about self-preservation. Had that hulk of a man not revealed his craziness and just kept walking until he was right next to me, he could have easily body-slammed me into the iron bars of the fence next to the sidewalk, knocked me off my feet, and then pummeled me to death. I’m strong, but there’s a reason weight classes exist in fighting sports. Upon thinking this, I suddenly empathized with the quiet and restrained terror women are forced to stomach as they stay vigilant of strangers who may suddenly inflict violence upon them.
The second thought I had was about some vocabulary I learned in a business law class I once took: ‘battery’ is physically harming someone, whereas ‘assault’ is creating a reasonable fear of immediate violence.
I just got assaulted.
Fuck that guy, I thought, how dare he assault me. I’ve walked home at night for years without any problems, and now he’s causing me to doubt my safety. Again, I thought about the female experience and how they must feel after being assaulted, drugged, or raped—their view of the world shifting evermore towards viewing strangers as potential criminals waiting to prey on them.
The next day, I recounted my story to a couple friends. I wondered aloud: can I safely walk home at night anymore? Do I need to get a weapon: pepper spray, a taser, a knife? Does having a weapon even matter if someone suddenly ambushes me?
One of my friends, well-intentioned, said to me, “I’m sure that guy didn’t mean it. He was crazy. You don’t need to fear walking at night for the rest of your life. You’re probably fine.” My other friend said, “Are you a fucking idiot? Some homeless people are crazy lunatics and will just murder you. He needs to carry a weapon or start driving to places. He could have died.”
One of them: the primordial voice of freedom, expression, and chaos.
The other: the ancient tribal voice calling for security, control, and order.
Their comments have been swirling around in my head for days now.
Have a great night, brother!
My friend and I were roaming downtown when a drifter asked us for a dollar. I told him, “not tonight,” and my friend quickly added, “and have a great night, brother!” The drifter smiled, “Thanks, you too man!”
I…wasn't expecting that from my friend. He took what's normally a shameful ritual, and by injecting humanity into it, turned it into a neighborly greeting.
I’ve added this to my repertoire, and now when a beggar asks me if I have a dollar, I respond with, “No, but have a great night, brother!”
They always appreciate it.
The Porcupine
Drunk and journeying home from a club at 1AM, I suddenly hear the sound of metal scraping on concrete.
There’s a man stumbling down the street, dragging a thick metal rod behind him.
My senses are dulled. Yet, I’m also alert and ready to sprint if he does anything remotely aggressive. The seductive pull of my bed is causing me to override my better judgment: I will continue inching forward along the sidewalk, instead of turning around and going the long way home.
Just when I’m about to move forward, from behind him I notice a local homeless woman approaching him. I’ve seen her around town and I always steer clear of her because of how she looks: she’s skinny with a shaved head and speed-walks with bare feet, looking like she has just escaped from a mental asylum.
She comes up beside the man and says to him, “Hey, are you okay?”
I’ve never heard her speak—she has a pleasant voice.
“Yeah,” he replies. Looking concerned, she continues, “I heard you got attacked, how are you doing?”
Oh.
They know each other.
That's the only snippet of conversation I hear as I scurry past them, my ears still blaring from the club music, my head pulsing from the alcohol.
I feared that man. I thought he could have been an aggressor. Now I’m feeling bad. It must be terrifying to be attacked. The metal rod, I’m realizing, isn't a weapon to attack someone with—it’s the quill of a scared porcupine.
Fuck, I'm drunk, and I'm feeling empathetic. Life always knows how to throw a curve ball of expectations. Good night, I'm stumbling off to bed now.
My typical walk home from the gym
The following happened all within ten minutes.
Straddled over his bike, a shirtless, flabby, leathery-skinned man grimaced as he descended the hilltop by my gym. He couldn’t ride down normally because he was holding back a heavy shopping cart in his right hand, and steering the bike with his left hand. He waddled his way down, while balancing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth—quite the circus act.
His weary eyes met mine, then he asked me, “Can you help me with my lady’s cart?” Behind him, hunched over a walker, a frail woman without an ounce of fat on her shuffled forward with hollow eyes. Alerted to my presence, an expression of terror took her face hostage.
Looking back at the leathery-skinned man, I said, “Sure, I’ll help you with the cart.”
I led the cart down the hill. As I marched back up, I approached his lady. She couldn’t have been more than 40 years old—I found it odd to see her using a walker. The words anorexia nervosa flickered across my mind.
I smiled and waved at her. She skirted to the farthest edge of the sidewalk. Her terrified eyes flitted at me while she hissed, “Stay away from me! Stay away from me!” God only knows what violent imagery haunts her when she closes her eyes.
At the top of the hill is a tunnel, colloquially known as Pee Tunnel (on account of the yellow painted walls and the pungent odor). As I journeyed through it, I noticed a fresh pile of human shit in the middle of it. I held my breath and stepped over it.
Once through Pee Tunnel, there’s a railing next to the sidewalk that encloses a tiny space. You would have to hop over the railing to get to the other side. Yet, inexplicably, there’s a legless man sitting on a motorized wheelchair in that tiny space. How did he get there? Did someone lift his wheelchair and put him there? What the actual fuck?
The legless man was smoking something. I’m not sure what, as it didn’t smell like cigarettes or marijuana. Then he handed it to a guy on my side of the railing, who then sauntered in front of me with the drug still lit. I was trailing this guy for about a block, trying not to inhale his fumes, when from behind me I heard someone yell, “BEEP BEEP!”
Inside Pee Tunnel, a woman on a bike was coasting towards us. Even though she was far away, she continued to yell, “BEEP BEEP,” every five seconds. When she got close, I stepped off the sidewalk for her. She passed me and said, “Thank you very much! God bless you.”
The man ahead of me, lost in a drug-induced reverie, didn’t hear her yelling and they nearly collided.
To escape his fume trails, I strided quickly past him and glanced at his face—he looked like Lennie from Of Mice and Men petting the rabbits.
A block later, I encountered a stocky, disheveled woman with tears in her eyes. I smiled at her sympathetically. She looked up at me with big puppy dog eyes and nervously said, “Excuse me.”
“What’s up?” I said.
Her face suddenly gnarled into a look of contempt. “By the way,” she spat, “I’m not one of those dirty homeless people.”
I squinted at her. “Umm. Okay.”
“I’m…” she looked away and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m trying to find a domestic abuse shelter. My abuser was just released from jail and I don’t know what to do. He keeps attacking me and my two daughters.”
I suddenly remembered something. All my sympathy drained away. I now felt complete apathy towards her. Annoyed, really.
She continued, “It’s a Sunday, so the domestic abuse shelters aren’t open. The only thing available around here for me and my two daughters is the local motel. It costs 23 dollars and 11 cents, and I’m short 8 dollars and 16 cents. I don’t know what to do.”
“Uh huh… Well, I’m just coming back from the gym and don’t have my wallet on me. I wish I could help. Good luck to you!”
I’m not heartless. Six months ago she pulled the same routine on me and I gave her $25 after hearing her sad story. Back then she claimed that she only had one daughter. Now she apparently has two daughters? I talked to my gym friends and they’ve also heard her spiel. One friend has been approached by her three times in the last year. On the third time, he told her that he doubted her story, to which she berated him and called him a “faggot”.
I continued my walk home from the gym.
On the next block, I spotted a mound of blankets. The only reason I knew there was a human underneath it was because I could see two dirty feet sticking out, being burned by the midafternoon sunlight. As I passed the mound, I stepped off the sidewalk to allow a man on a bike to pass. He was missing most of his teeth and sobbing profusely.
Finally, on the last block before my apartment, I saw an intimidating shirtless guy with sunglasses and tattooed arms repeatedly picking up a stick. At first, I thought he was practicing a stabbing motion. But when I looked closer, I realized he was just trying to balance the stick on his index finger, like a little kid might do to have fun.
Catman
Along my favorite running path just outside the city, there’s a half-mile stretch of land where feral cats hang out. Every 200 feet, there are two bowls on the side of the path: one filled with kibble, the other with fresh water. I say hello to the cats when I pass them. I’ve been running on this path for years, but I never knew who took care of them, until today. As I was chugging along the path this morning, that’s when I saw him. Catman.
He was cresting over a hill, the morning sun illuminating him like a golden god.
Riding a single speed bike, his lanky legs were forced to jut out and pedal diagonally to make room for the massive plastic bags hanging from each handlebar. He veered to and fro about the path, struggling to stay upright while he cruised along.
From a distance, I watched him sway to the side of the path, dismount from his trusty steed, pull from the plastic bags a giant two-liter jug of water and a bag of kibble, and fill the cats’ bowls. Then he jumped back on his steed and pushed off, wobbling from the uneven distribution of weight on his handlebars. He pedaled for another 100 meters until he reached the next set of cat bowls, repeating his divine act of providence.
Upon watching this, in that moment I christened him “Catman”.
I had so many questions for Catman: where did these cats come from? When did you start taking care of them? Do you have names for them, and if so, how do you remember all their names?
After a moment of reflection, I decided, no, I’m not going to ask Catman any questions. I’d rather it be a mystery for me to ponder.
When Catman approached me, he beamed me a wide, toothless smile and said, “Good morning!” I greeted him back and waved. Catman did not wave back as he would have lost his balance on his trusty steed. Then he wobbled down the path until he turned a corner and was out of sight.
I never saw Catman again. But the cats’ bowls are always full every time I run by.
The legend of Catman lives on.
Part 1: I would have shit in that alley, too
Part 2: A City Within a City
Part 3: Assaulted