Open Ground

It was late. Or it was early. That line gets pretty fuzzy east of 3 a.m. Anyway. Riding the Western Avenue bus south. Headed home from my best friend from high school's place. Hung out there a lot back then. Don't know what we were doing that night. Playing cards. Or video games. Or just shooting the shit. Haven't heard from her in years. Doesn't matter. That is now. This was then. On the Western Avenue bus. Sometime before dawn on a January night. Or morning. Take your pick.

The bus stopped at the O'Hare Blue Line. Runs 24/7/365. Been on it many times. Even at that hour. Once threw up off the Belmont platform after a party in Logan Square. Had gotten on the train going the wrong way. Haven't touched grain alcohol since.

A couple people get on the bus at the stop. One guy about my size threw himself down in the seat across the aisle from me. Light unkemped brown hair. Dull, hooded eyes. A nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. I went back to staring out the window. Then he started talking to me.

"Comin' back from a party, huh?"
I looked at him. Wearily shook my head. Went back to staring. "So, where's the party?" I looked at him again. "No party, man. Just goin' home." He stared. Unblinking. Looked drunk. Maybe high. Couldn't smell anything from him. Didn't want to get close enough to.

Two stops closer to home. He started up again. "C'mon, man, Where's the party?" I looked at him again. Unwillingly. "No party. Just tired and headed for home." He continued to stare. Unblinking. "C'mon, man. I know you know where the party is. I wanna go to the party." I stopped looking across the aisle. Just a few stops to go. Just a few stops to home.

My stop came up. I grabbed the pole. Swung up quickly. Sprang out the door. Crossed at the light. Made the turn toward home, Just a couple blocks to go.

Someone walked up beside me. About my size. Dull, hooded eyes. Nose that looks like it's been broken at least once. Moved more quietly than you'd think.

"We're goin' to the party, right?"

"I told you, man. There's no party. I'm tired and just want to go home." Getting irritated. Nervous. This guy's not high. Not drunk. Not right.

"C'mon. Take me there. The party at your place?"

My place. This freak was going to dog me all the way to my place. Mom and Dad's place. Home.

At the last intersection before home, I stop. "Look. There. Is. No. Party. I'm going home. You should, too. Goodbye." He blocked my path with his body. "What. Is. Your. Problem?"

He shoved me against the apartment building at the corner. Not hard enough to bounce me. Or ever jar me. Just an attention-getter.

"I'm going to kill you," he said.

He had my attention.

It's not what you say. It's how you say it. He didn't say it like a threat. Or a promise. Or even something he particularly wanted to do. He said it like it was a forgone conclusion. I was going to die. He was going to kill me. Simple.

I wasn't scared. Strange. But I'd been threatened with worse. Had worse done to me. Survived. And Mr. Broken-Nosed Psycho wasn't displaying any weaponry. No knife. No gun. Not even the "finger in the pocket" trick. Just his hands on my army surplus coat. And unblinking, lifeless eyes.

"Okay. Why would you want to do that?"

No answer. Stare. "Let's go." No reasoning with him. Not right. Started walking down side street. Away from home. No telling where he wanted to take me. His place? An alley? Abandoned building? Didn't plan to find out.

Options? Few. Could have tried to slug him. We were side by side. Not a good angle. And hadn't slugged anyone in years. Not a fighter. Back me into a corner and I'll come out swinging. Like any other animal. But that would be a last resort.

Best bet? Pick a moment and run for open ground. Put a few steps between me and Mr. Broken-Nosed Psycho. Open ground. More options. More of a chance.

We walked. But only a few feet. The apartment building he'd pinned me to ended at an alley. My alley. I didn't look at him. Didn't say a word. Just waited for my right shoulder to clear the burgundy brick and made a quick, hard right at the corner. Tooled down the alley. Took long, loping steps. Open ground.

Didn't really have a plan. Mom and Dad's back gate was maybe 30 yards ahead. A bitch to open at any time. Much less when a broken-nosed psycho is right behind you. I'd have to jump it. If I got there far enough ahead of him. Maybe grab something in the alley to hit him with. A pipe. Two-by-four. Anything. Keep running, stupid. Keep running.

Tricky footing in the alley. January. Snow on the ground. Packed down by passing cars. Like running on wet glass. Could have been worse. Could have been wearing dress shoes. Or boots. Instead, trusty Chuck Taylor All-Stars. Good traction. Long, loping steps. Open ground.

Mr. Broken-Nosed Psycho? Not so fortunate. Had dress boots on. Not ideal for sprinting at any time. But especially not this late. Or early. In January. On packed-down snow. After someone wearing Chuck Taylor All-Stars with a few steps on him. Not ideal at all. Too bad. So sad.

Maybe it was God. If I still believed. Which I'm not sure I do. Or fate. Or dumb luck. Whatever. But just ahead of me were two horizontal columns of light. Slicing the cold, thick night. An open garage door. With a car. And a man behind the wheel.

I slid to a halt. Right between the headlights. Started screaming. "HELPTHERE'SAFUCKINGPSYCHOBEHINDMEWHOSAYSHE'SGONNAKILLME!" Driver didn't speak. Didn't move. Kept his hands on the wheel. Ten o'clock. Two o'clock. Just stared ahead.

Mr. Broken-Nosed Psycho? Never broke stride. Kept sprinting down the alley. Picked up speed as he went. faded fast into the distance.

Strange. Now that he was gone, now that I was safe...now I felt afraid. Maybe it was like in the movies. Teenager thinks he's safe. Psycho in hockey mask pops up and bisects his stupid, trusting ass. Happened all the time. In the movies.

I approached the car. Driver still didn't move. Hispanic male. Medium build. Thick cookie-duster mustache. Staring at me. Maybe afraid himself. How would he know what he'd just seen? Maybe a lovers' quarrel. Or a drug deal gone bad. Or two crazy-ass mofos chasing each other around on a bitter-cold January night. Or morning. How would he know?

"Can...can I cut through your garage to get to the street?" Voice shaky. Winded. Relieved. Scared. Driver finally moves. Takes right hand off ten o'clock. "Go around and use the gangway." I nodded. Thanked him. He never got out of the car. Hand back at ten o'clock.

I took a deep breath. Exhaled not slowly, like you should when stressed to the Nth. But quickly. Like spitting. Or letting smoke out of your lungs. Then I headed for the yellow light of the street ahead of me. Craned out around the corner of the building. Like a wolf in a Warner Brothers cartoon. No one on the street. No one walking. Or driving. Or anything. Open ground.

Quick, long steps. Keys out and ready. Top lock. Bottom lock. In the door. Through the living room. Up the stairs. Home.

Never told Mom and Dad about that. They worried enough about me as it was. Chicago streets can be dangerous. Any of them. At any time. No need to confirm this for them. They'd both been mugged before. Dad was held up at gunpoint once in a diner. They knew. They worried enough.

Never saw that guy again. Never want to. Hope the karma train came and took his broken-nosed psycho self away.

I'm not a lover. (Not for years, anyway). I'm not a fighter. (Not unless that's all there is left to do.) But a survivor? Oh yeah. I'm that. At the very least.