“I really want to know what you think I should do about this girl I saw.”
“She’s not going to tell you that someone is beating her up, if that’s what’s happening. You have to do what we do. Spy, watch, learn. Get close to her. Earn her trust if you have the chance. Get a better read on her situation. You need to be sure before you take any action, that’s how we were trained.” She sighs, “I’m hoping you paid enough attention that if you come face-to-face with an abusive boyfriend, you don’t get hurt. The scariest situations are domestic violence because emotions are higher when the heart is involved. Money is one thing, like what we’re dealing with, with all of these fucking human trafficking monsters. But domestic violence can be even worse. The girl could turn on you, to protect her man.”
An avalanche of tourists pours in. Turning away from the noise, I tell Celia, “There’s a baby, too. She has a child. And the way she talked about the father, I think he might be the one.”
“Watch yourself, little brother. If you need us, we’re there.”
“Love you, Ceels.”
“I love you, too.”
The phone goes dead and I slide it into my slacks while walking my empty cup to the trashcan. A self-protective pull in my chest urges me to look at that guy.
I don’t want to fight him, but I’m getting the feeling he’s itching to show me who’s the bigger man. I never align myself with that primal impulse.
Can I really say never?
No, it’s more accurate to state that I fight it. My family doesn’t know it’s a choice I’ve made because it doesn’t feel good to be angry. I’ve always been the scholastic type, introverted, practically hermit-like.
But as with any man, there is a beast waking up at the idea that I’m about to be pummeled. Back home, the Ciphers let their dogs loose as a lifestyle, and for a living, to save people. But to me it just never felt right to fight.
I feel we shouldn’t need to anymore. There are so many ways to communicate, why not use those? And we’ve more access to information than ever before. Why not educate ourselves and overcome our differences in other ways that are more effective? Everybody’s got something unique to offer, but people forget that. There’s absolutely nothing better about that person or this person or that person or this person and that goes on and on and on. No one is on a tier except for the classism we subjugate ourselves to as a society. We do that. We also accept that.
I realized right before I left the plantation to come up north and go to real school for once in my life, that I have the ability and the inclination to help people. Like that doe-eyed, pillowy-armed, beauty I saw again yesterday afternoon. I said hello and she smiled, yet kept walking, head hung and body posture determined to be anything else but visible.
It’s a conundrum.
What should I do?
Take a stand or take a knee.
As the bright sun hits my face I’m so in my head over these thoughts that I’ve forgotten I need to watch my back.
“Hey fuckhead!”
It also doesn’t occur to me to stop walking.
“Hey fuckhead!” he repeats, angrier.
I turn my head, pause, and frown. “Yes?”
“You think you’re some kind of chivalrous asshole, don’t you?”
“I don’t think chivalrous and asshole make sense together in a sentence. Unless you’re talking about two different people and I am only one.”
His head jogs back on his neck. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No,” I answer honestly, shifting to face him. “It would never occur to me to poke fun at someone who has been through what you just have.”
He’s confused even more and sputters, “What the fuck??!”
The expletive is anger unreleased with nowhere to go. Once our blood is pumping it takes a powerful person to change course. The synapses in our brains have become altered. The caveman inside believes he must protect his home. Actions must be quick. Thinking, a luxury. But thinking is exactly why we have survived.
I maintain a soothing tone. “When you are breaking up with someone, it’s almost as painful as being broken up with. I commend you for doing it in person, and I understand your feelings are pretty raw. To make matters worse, I helped her when it was you who normally would’ve assisted, but how can you help somebody get over you? You can’t. You’d just fan hope’s cruel flame. Any other day prior to this and it would’ve been your hand to open that door. That gave me the appearance of a threat. I assure you I am not. I helped merely because she was embarrassed and hurting, and I have a sister. It occurred to me that if my sister had been hurting and fumbling in public, and someone hadn’t rushed forward to assist her, well… I don’t even like to imagine it. Your girlfriend clearly loves you. She’s about to have an enormously strenuous time getting over you. And that probably will leave you sleepless. I’m sorry for your loss. Both of you.”
He blinks with an expression staring back that I have seen countless times while living among heathens with hearts of gold. I inspire confusion in most people. And there’s nothing I can do about that because this is who I am.
But he heard me. I spoke not to his head but to his heart. It’s altered his voice’s texture. “I just didn’t think she was the one.” Glancing to the sidewalk he winces. “I love her, but I don’t love her enough.” Like it’s been haunting him, he rubs his face as he stares into a memory. “I was at a club with my buddies and there was this girl. I didn’t do anything.” He locks eyes with me, searching. “But I wanted to. I was this close, man. It scared me. I don’t want to be that guy. She deserves
