Last night was election night. I snuck in a walk between my evening meetings because the temperature had been near 70 during the day, unseasonably warm for our area. I wanted to be outside, away from social media and color-changing maps of the United States.
The path along the river is dark in many places and dangerous on a warm night when the moon is waning and tensions are high. When I lived in downtown Minneapolis, we used to be extra cautious during the full moons of the summer months when, as my friend said, the crazies came out.
I walked on the path through areas where the sun’s warmth still lingered and spots where the slight breeze drifted across the river and pulled the chill out of the water. Warm, then cold, then warm again. One surprise after another.
Under the bridge by the sugar company building, where turkeys and geese sometimes admonish passersby, I looked across the river. When the foliage is full, I cannot see into the places near the bank where people gather to sleep or engage in illicit activities. I have always loved how secrets are revealed when the world is made bare by the falling of the leaves, how sound carries past the barren limbs.
I rounded the corner by the Viking ship museum, crossed the river, and descended onto the path under the trestle bridge where rabbits and squirrels and other unknown creatures scurry. That is when I heard him, a man shouting obscenities and nonsense from the parking ramp at the mostly-closed mall.
He screamed and banged, said “fuck” in as many different ways as one can. His voice bounced off the concrete and flew out into the night. He was on the other side, but I had to cross to get back home. I had no phone, and I had seen only one living creature – a black lab whose human whistled to call her home just after I passed her.
I am rarely afraid, even when it would be sensible to be, but in this moment I was. What if he meets me and beats me senseless, I wondered, simply because I am in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if no one finds me? Who will feed my cat when I am Jane Doe in a hospital bed?
“I am so fucking sick of this shit!” he shouted. I saw a person flying down the street on a bicycle, but I could not tell if they were the yeller or were trying to get away from the yeller.
I walked faster, sought out places to flee to safety, prayed for peace or a police car or a sudden violent snowstorm. I passed through the park and climbed to the street adjacent to mine. I could see into my neighbors’ apartments, their fascinating artwork, but not them. I reasoned that if the man found me here, someone would hear my screams.
I crossed the street into my parking lot and scanned to be sure he was not lurking between the garages. After I entered my apartment building, I let out the breath I had been holding.
What is this man’s story? What was he so sick of? Why such rage? I hope I will never know.
Being Wendi 