June 2, 2002
To better facilitate my recognition of my last full day of freedom before I am submerged into a wavering sea of the specifics of an unfamiliar language, I went for a walk. It was pleasantly warm, and just blustery enough to take the edge off of the humidity. I chose to walk up the bike path and along Riverside Drive, since the scene is nauseatingly picturesque. With no direction in mind before I reached the footbridge, I decided to cross it. The beauty of today was shared by canoers and kayakers alike. Weight watchers, dog walkers, and stroller pushing power-walkers all reveled in the sunshine and mercifully low humidity. The leaves all shimmied on their branches as shadows darted along the footpath.
On Friday, a mailman I saw twice told me I walk at a good pace. I'll not argue with the man, since I have been passing by the other pedestrians like irascible taxi drivers intolerant of traffic jams. Not until I reached a park blanched with glare did I appreciate the shade proffered by the trees. The river was coated with green scum, and the fountains were doing their best to divert it. Does the fact the fountains are on mean we are no longer in a drought? Or is the Union County Park System failing to abide by water restrictions? There was an Arts and Crafts Fair today, which explained why there were cars lined up along the sides of dead end roads. I saw the white tents set up like cheap tepees or simultaneous, cost-cutting Mormon weddings. Not to be diverted from my still-to-be-determined route, and with no money to spend on hair wraps or funnel cakes, I kept on walking.
Unaware of what "good time" would be, I made it through the park in fifteen minutes. As I was near the college, I thought it would be a good idea to take an alternate route home, and time it. This way, I could walk along shadier streets in the event of a sweltering heat wave during the course of my class. As I sauntered down Penn Road, I was again reminded of my town's effort to be clever, by giving all roads near the college names of, you guessed it: (mostly) Ivy League universities. I continued to admire the day, the neat little houses with wide driveways, the happy people on foot and on bikes. As I ambled further, I recognized a face from my past. There, on the trusty two-wheeler his parents gave him, was Mike Bike. He was never a part of my life, but one of several characters who made appearances two summers ago. A mentally deficient threat on two wheels, Mike Bike was frequently the butt of jokes he could not grasp. As all kids know, people with disabilities are the first to be picked on by those with no compassion. Mike Bike, wearing a Pink Floyd shirt, rode on whichever side of the street suited him at the time, if not the middle. Occasionally, he stopped to check his surroundings, and maybe flaunt his mad skillz with a half circle of figure eight across the street. Once I realized who he was , I smiled to myself. Not because I was reminded of any particularly heartwarming moment in time, but because his name is not even Mike.
Turning onto Harvard Road, I passed the house and gaudily fledged lawn of the lecherous man who is rumored to have taken inappropriate photos of children he lured inside. Before me was Brookside Place School, my alma mater. I had anticipated going right to pass the high school and take the fastest route home. After I saw Mike stop on Harvard and wait for me to turn, I decided I would go whichever way he didn't. He turned right, I made a left onto Willow Street. My uneasiness was quelled until I saw his vagrant figure behind me.
With the mantra, "I will not let this creepy cartoon find out where I live," my goal was to lose him. I walked on at a quickened pace, and would occasionally glance back to see him either paused to examine an inchworm or on my tail. Walking faster did not help me occlude him. My next thought was to slow my footsteps until he was in front of me, and then take a turn onto one of the busiest streets in the town. After I turned, I found myself sprinting up the block. It surprised me, because I cannot recall running voluntarily since my thirteen-minute mile in seventh grade. The squares of sidewalk were vanishing behind me as I darted over them, and was surprised I had not collapsed after half a block. I turned onto Springfield Avenue, and remembered why I was running: I was, in fact, being pursued by a mentally deficient biker who still lives with his parents. That extra chromosome must have given him an edge, because as I was dashing down the street, he materialized again. If I can't lose him, I thought in my sick head, maybe a friendly Sport Utility Vehicle will take him down for me.
Of course I am aware of how ridiculous this is. I am in corduroys with my hair getting tangled in the wind, sweating buckets, feeling lightheaded, and running from a retard. People run from rapists with box-cutters, gun-wielding gang members, even priests. His only weapon was a bike. I had not the gumption to go over and push him off his bike, or at least inform him we are not playing tag, he is not it, and to QUIT FOLLOWING ME! Passive as I am, I have proven my ability to be elusive. Why can I not lose a cognitive incompetent?! I felt justified running because that's what people are supposed to do when they are being followed. Getting away was more of a priority than considering for a second who I was running from. Maybe I just didn't want to talk to him. Breaking into sprints a few more times, I reached my street, and so did Mike Bike.
No longer did I care if he discovered where I lived and circled around and threw things at my window when I am asleep. I was tired, dehydrated, and overheating. My ribs ached because I am not accustomed to running from retarded folk. When he was halfway down my block, I leapt through my neighbor's yard and in my back door.
There's always time for confrontation later.
