In the Cold - 1. In the Cold

In the Cold

By W.L

The world is complicated. We are neither perfect angels of mercy or demons of vengeance. Sometimes, you have no choice, when there are countless choices open to you. Sometimes, you think you have all the choices in the world, but in the end, you can only make one fateful choice.

It was a very cold night in January. The last few days were brutal, but this particular night took the cake. I would challenge any Bostonian to walk around and wait for a bus with the icy winds blowing in their face. While we were used to cold weather up here, below zero weather due to wind chills over an extended period of time was still a rare occurrence. At every bus stop, the crowd would gather at the bus’ door like starving orphans looking for their daily intake of gruel. Like the gruel, a warm bus only temporarily nourishes the body and the cold reality would follow once your stop is reached. Mankind can invent space-age fabrics and electric heaters, but we cannot avoid the cold chills of a winter evening.

So it was without much fanfare that I stood shoulder to shoulder on the bus for the daily hour long ride home. Just as I closed my only eye and imagined a meal of chicken and vegetables, the bus sounded my stop with its siren-like electronic voice. I pushed the big yellow strip on the bus’ wall and the buzzer rung for my request to stop. I would have rather stayed in the warm bus with those wonderful dreams rather than get out into the cold reality that I would need to bear.

Alas, I am a realist and this is not a fantasy story about some mysterious world filled with magic or wonder. Our daily lives are usually plain, simple, and routine, except for the rare events as I am about to reveal.

I began to walk down the long street towards my home. I passed the local bank with the digital time and temperature sign post: “7:15 PM and 7° F”.

I didn’t need to be reminded on how late nor how cold it was. I had worked late in the office that day, due to payroll issues and end of year reconciliation. People imagine that Accounting is really easy, 1+1=2 should be right. Well, when John and Doe were added together you do not get John Doe; it proves your records are corrupted. An Accountant is more than a numbers guy or bean counter. We are also information users and analysts. Math is easy, information arrangement and analysis is what separates us from Bookkeepers. I had a long day due to information problems.

As I walked, I began to daydream again. I thought up little things like an adventure to search for ancient treasure or commanding a starship during the heat of battle. Despite my daydreaming, I was keen to my surroundings as I walked at a tempered pace to avoid black ice. In New England, it wasn’t the visible ice or snow that scares pedestrians or drivers, but the seemingly normal surfaces that conceals a cold truth.

As I neared my home, I saw a blinking head light from a car. It was parked right in front of my house, which did not seem odd at first as there were always Harvard kids looking for quick parking spaces around my area to pick up friends.

As I got closer, I noticed little oddities. The car was parked strangely with its tail about 45° to the open road. The driver had left his vehicle and was pacing around.

As I approached him, he asked me through his scarf in a muffled voice: “Is this 52, Linden Street?”

My night vision is very poor, I freely admit it. My vision during the day is around 20/40 to 20/50, but at night, my visual range shrinks considerable to 20/80 to 20/100 with only one eye. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like even if I tried.

However, I could describe his body outline and his arm positions. As he was asking me, his right leg was in front and his left was in the back, which I knew from experience was how people liked to approach strangers at night, when asking for directions at least if they were right handed. The distance between his legs was very wide, which told me he was impatient for an answer. I could tell that he had his hands in his pockets, which was very normal as I did the same with my gloves due to the cold winds penetrating the openings in your sleeves. However, his right arm was tilted up slightly like he was holding something inside his jacket.

Based on those facts with special focus on his desire to know that particular address, I could guess that he came with a malicious intent for a previous injustice that was done to him. I had dreaded this day ever since I learned the truth.

His actions must have been rushed in my view: he wanted to get here fast without second thoughts based on his car’s position. He must have found the address based on Google maps or something similar, which quite frankly would not show you the exact house, just the general vicinity due to how similar homes look in my area without outside door numbers or mailboxes. Finally, what he had in his pocket was no doubt a weapon, probably a gun, but a concealed knife was just as possible.

No, I am not some kind of genius detective, but being partially blind, you learn certain things about human movement, temperaments, and body postures. Anyone can learn this stuff if they pay attention to the world around them. Hell, since you guys have perfect night vision, you can do a better job than me.

Beyond all those clues, I also knew who lived in 52 Linden Street, since it was the bottom unit of my home. My home consists of two units. I inhabit the top floor or 54 Linden Street. The bottom floor was rented out to Mr. Ryan Cole. Mr. Cole was about 75 years old and in need of a place to rent. My first impression of him was that he was easygoing guy, who just wanted a place to call home after years of wandering. I found him to be jovial, funny in the old fashioned type of way, and very humble after the first few months of renting out the unit to him. Then, I learned about his past from some paperwork that he asked me to help him with concerning his state taxes. I researched the name and social security number, a flag came up. I read up his prior criminal record and did not know what to think.

Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables was probably my favorite subject in French class, Dumas was overhyped and I thought Camus was too apathetic, when it came to redemption and criminality. Everyone enjoys the musical number in the movie, but it is the subject and heart of the story about Jean Valjean that truly intrigued me. There is a corollary question in the story: Can a person become irredeemable? That was fresh on my mind again as I pondered about Mr. Cole and this man standing before me.

I stepped in between him and my front gate, then replied, “Why are you here?”

I could guess the real answer, but my head was spinning as to what to do next.

I could try running for it; hoping he doesn’t have a gun or if he does that he might be a bad shot. I highly doubted that I could outrun him with my messenger laptop bag and steel toed boots. Life is not an action movie, where people have horrible aim except the protagonist. I could try to fight him, but I am not some secret martial arts expert or daredevil wannabe. Throughout all my mental scenarios, I could not escape the fact that maybe I should just let him do it. I am not a hero; hell, I am not even close to being a side kick. Why stick out my neck for someone, like Mr. Cole?

Then, I remembered the man I know, not the man in the news articles. There was no way that I could let this guy in knowing what I did about his intention. I might not be the one pulling the trigger or taking the first stab, but I would have been complicit for someone else’s death.

A cold gust blasted the two of us. It was a chilly burst of reality that allowed me to make up my mind. No matter what Mr. Cole did, I am not his judge.

The man stared at me, “You know, don’t you?”

I gave no reply, hoping he might reconsider his quest for vengeance.

He blasted out with chilling howl, “THAT BASTARD SHOULD DIE!”

He came towards me, so I played dumb, hoping it would buy some time for a miracle, “Seriously, I don’t know what you are talking about?”

He stopped and looked at me again, then retreated slightly. Body distance and antagonism are interrelated. The more he steps away during a confrontation; the less antagonistic he would be towards me physically.

Then he began, “You don’t know what he did? You don’t know who he hurt or how many more people he is still hurting?”

Something sank in my stomach, is he still doing it? The cops would have known or he’d bring someone to the house. I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary except for the usual PBS nightly programs. Yet, I’m at work from 9am-5pm, if he wanted to do it when no one was around, he could have. Did I give him a free pass with my complacency?

Fear swept through my body and I imagined what might have been happening under my own roof. I could hear the squeals of protests, cries of horror, and even imagine the aftermath with apathetic faces from his victims. As my heart and mind raced, I remembered an old Buddhist phrase, “Thoughts create fear based on illusions, which only increases suffering. Only when the illusion is laid to rest with truth, then the fear can cease”.

It may seem strange that I would have random thoughts of wisdom like that in the middle of standoff, but that’s how my mind works. I think asymmetrically, when I am under pressure and strain, subconsciously connecting points of reference. I might not be an adherent to the Buddhist faith, but I do believe in the wisdom that only truth could set my conscience free.

I needed to know, “What do you mean? What is he doing?”

He sighed and his shoulders dropped, which I took to mean he did not want to kill me at least for now. His head was on the same level as mine, so I surmised he was staring at me, judging me perhaps. I could see his head move slightly with a nod, which I guessed meant he wanted to talk. Another gust of cold air whipped my face; I could feel the blood in my body freezing with the chilly wind as I awaited his answer. I hoped my worst fears had not been realized.

He began, “It was about 30 years ago, when I was 12 and still an altar boy at St. Jude in Waltham. The busing stuff in Boston was going on; my folks thought the safest place for me was in God’s hands outside our neighborhood in Dorchester. The blacks were out in the streets chanting and we could hear fights breaking out every night. There was fresh blood on the sidewalk in front of my school every day…” he paused momentarily.

The Boston busing issue was an infamous policy in the City of Boston that lasted from 1970’s to 1980’s. I am not going to describe it as there are things about my city that I would leave to history books and Wikipedia.

After a short noticeable moment of introspection from him, he continued, “When I went to St. Jude’s Church, Pastor Cole was really nice to me and made me feel safe in the church. He didn’t speak like a normal priest full of prayer and mysterious sayings from the Bible that no kid would get. He acted almost like an older brother, teaching me new things and giving me encouragement in those dark times. I felt really safe and warm being around him…”

The man’s voice trailed off. I could piece together the rest of his story, but I had been mindful of his intonation and voice throughout what he was saying. People don’t go around telling you their life’s story without a reason and the way he was telling it made me wonder even more. At first, I thought he just wanted revenge, but in his speech, there was a crisp descriptive quality. It wasn’t hatred.

He continued at a higher tempo, “…Then my best friend was stabbed in front of me by this black kid, I really couldn’t take it anymore. Pastor Cole taught me how to deal with it…”

He froze in his speech without any physical movement. Silence consumed the cold blustery night.

In another time and another place, I probably would have been fascinated by all the history in what he was telling me. Heck, if he were open to the idea, I’d ask him out for coffee at Starbucks. I know Boston’s history very well and despite the false sense of progress that many people apply to my city based on utopian liberal values, we didn’t achieve our level of openness without a large deal of blood.

Breaking the silence, I asked with a little empathy, wanting him to vent this out, “What happened?”

He spoke in almost a whisper with hesitation, “It started small, he taught me how to jerk off, then stuff went from there.”

Something didn’t add up in my mind, I had to ask him, “Why are you here, now? Everything happened 30 years ago, Mr. Cole went jail for his crimes ten years ago. He’s been living here for 2 years.”

I probably was playing my hand a bit too strong as I had revealed information that contradicts my earlier statement. However, something needed to be done to break this impasse or someone will be hurt tonight. He was molested 30 years ago, if he wanted revenge, then why did he wait so long? Why not right after Mr. Cole got out of prison 4 years ago according to the news?

He grew angrier, “Why? WHY? HE SCREWED UP MY LIFE”

All that went through my head was “shit, I made him angry”. I was starting to sweat now, despite the bitter cold air. I could feel my body getting ready to make a fight-or-flight reflex.

In the midst of all this, I processed everything he told me and everything I had observed. I figured out generally what happened. However, should I tell him? Or, would it be safer just to keep quiet? I processed through all the scenarios that I could come up with and chose the dangerous gamble.

As he was fuming, I softly expressed my discovery, “You felt something today for a boy that reminded you of what happened 30 years ago.”

He froze and his anger turned to panic. As I said earlier, my mind works asymmetrically, when I am under stress. It is gift and curse to have a mind that can come up with deductive and inductive reasoning at random moments. One reason, I am still single.

He slurred out a stunned response, “how…you…know? I just hugged him and it went hard…I didn’t want to…”

I didn’t know the details, but I took the opening, “Have you tried asking for help? Talked with anyone else?”

He froze again, “No, I can’t…my life…my family...my wife…my son…he would not understand…I don’t want him to know that about me…”

As a gay man, I can understand the shame and fear in revealing your personal desires, but there’s a difference between him and me. I have developed my desires naturally from childhood to adulthood, accepted my own desires, and seek to live with them in a society that is opening up to it. His desires were forced upon him by another person, allowed to fester over time, and become a vicious cycle within society. I feel a great sympathy for him and even Mr. Cole as parts of an ancient cycle that predates Civilization.

Based on what he told me, I pieced together all the details and realized the problem, “Look, you have to stop denying it to yourself or the way you felt about it.”

Ironically, he was the one asking me questions now, “What do you mean?”

I went for broke, “Look, you don’t hate everything about him. Part of you did like him. I heard it in your voice and what you said. I am not a psychologist or anything, but I understand how hiding something can eat you up inside. You need to talk about those feeling and intense memories, because you have to live with them. Even if you kill him, you won’t kill those memories. You can’t get rid of them, because they are part of you.”

I could feel the intensity of emotions was rushing through my body, despite the cold calm that had settled after my words as he turned his head around.

He shook his head and went into his car. It felt like mere seconds, but his car was gone. I went inside and took a hot shower, then went to bed.

I don’t know if I did the right thing or not in saving one man, who’s guilty of destroying the lives of countless others. Did Mr. Cole deserve to die for what this man was facing in his life? I don’t know and I probably can never know. I do not know if he eventually went to see a counselor as I had hoped. I do not know if he was consumed by his demons and molested his own son or others, starting the same vicious cycle. We’re all stuck with moments of doubt in our minds and moments of regret. There was nothing more I could do; I had no name, nor information to go on to report to the cops with a massive potential list of suspects. He had committed no real crime and everything was merely words, so what could be done?

For me, it was an interesting encounter, but it has passed and I must let it go. The warmth of home eventually thawed my cold burst of reality, so I write this now in retrospection without regret.

I hope that whoever that man was, he will find some type of peace despite the cold realities that no one can escape.

The End