A LITTLE NIGHT WALK
At night, the shadows augmented his vision, creating shapes that were not there, making familiar pathways into strange encounters.
He never usually went out in the evening during the week but he wanted to see the full moon. The weather had also been unusually warm in the city, a welcoming heat that deceptively made him feel like the worst of the winter weather was officially over. It’s not so much the cold that makes the winter months so difficult, but the incessant unrelenting bleakness of dark grey skies that haunt his bones. He felt a small sense of relief witnessing the change into spring which brought brighter of the day and prolonged sunsets. Still, every morning he made sure to check the weather app, looking at the days ahead to preempt any seasonal mood swings. This is the Netherlands after all and weather patterns are erratic. Consistency is an illusion.
The neighbourhood was eerily calm which put him on edge. He made sure to walk a few feet behind the random woman in front of him, not wanting to invade her personal space. He kept his hand in his short’s pocket to keep his apartment keys from jangling but soon became self-conscious that it might look like he was concealing something. From the short distance he could see that she appeared not to notice or care of his existence, walking leisurely while typing a message on her phone. All his worry seemed to be unfounded or unnecessary. Passing another woman, this time a nighttime jogger, made him realize that overall, no one seemed concerned in the slightest about possible dangerous occurrences in the night; a testament to how safe the city was.
The realization of how unsafe he felt at night surprised him. Perhaps it was the residual trauma of living in bigger cities like Toronto or New York, where being on high alert was recommended, and getting safely to your destination was a cause for relief. As he walked the neighbourhood he became aware of his double consciousness, the way he performed and pretended to be relaxed. He made sure his gait was even, unhurried, but purposeful as to appear in control. He kept the hand in his pocket wrapped around his keys, should anything happen even though he’d never been in a fight his entire life.
Why all the posturing and precaution? Clearly no one cared. The few people he did see on his night walk appeared harmless. A few were walking their dogs who wore LED collars as though they were heading to a doggie-rave; a couple sat across from each other on a public picnic table, along the canal, drinking ice tea from cans while finishing up a card game. He only passed by one individual that made him worry: a young man seated hunched over on a bench, his black hoodie pulled over his face, wearing a black puffy coat which seemed inappropriate in the warm night air. What through him was the man was doing nothing. Was he asleep? He was hunched over as though he’d be looking into his phone, but there was no phone. He was lifeless, as still as the bench he was sitting on. He wondered what could be going on in this person’s life to lead him to the bench? What were the circumstances that led him to this moment? He decided not to linger too long.
Am I a cat? He saw a few during his late night stroll, most of them crouched or ready to pounce, fearful of humans and the world around them (and yet out and about, curious, courageous). In contrast to the raver dogs that boundlessly bounced through the rich grass, the cats seemed strategic, placing themselves on car roofs for optimal surveillance or hiding stealthily in shadows.
How ironic, he thought, that he felt the need to get off his couch and into the world, only to peer into other people’s apartment windows and see that they were doing the exact same thing he was doing only minutes ago, lying horizontal on cushy couches, staring at giant flat screens.
He wanted to feel relaxed but he couldn't. He felt sad, admitting that something about that night scared him, that he no longer felt drawn to its unstructured deviousness. During the day he had purpose, he could literally see where he was going. At night, the shadows augmented his vision, creating shapes that were not there, making familiar pathways into strange encounters.
He did eventually witness the moon in all its fullness, reflecting a warm buttery yellow light. A nice way to end a long and quiet day. A night of solitude. It was rarely him, cycling through the night to meet up with friends, grabbing drinks at a bar. He never acquired the ease of chatting with a group of people at once. There was something about the cadence that always unsettled him. The quick shifts in tone and register were exhausting, people competing for air time, the seamless slippage into mansplaining or monologuing, the bumbling of words that brought conversations to a halt. Perhaps it was an occupational hazard of being a DJ once upon a time, but the ability to hear competing sounds made it difficult to focus on one conversation while overhearing another (more interesting) conversation elsewhere. Often he would see the raucous joy of a group of men and women, smiling and laughing with drinks in their hands and think, what could they possibly be talking about for hours? He often peered over at his group of peers, thinking, why is that not me? What is it about me that doesn’t afford me that kind of life, what are the choices I’ve made or the stories I have told myself that have excluded me from the effervescent collective? Ultimately he knows that he doesn't actually care. Even when he’s encountered these kinds of social settings, all he is hoping for is a few genuine conversations one-on-one that will sustain him throughout the night until he’s able to make an Irish exit.
In the end, he was happy that he went out into the night. Before making his way back to the apartment he stopped by a public bookcase to peruse the books for English titles. Grabbing one, he walked the rest of the way home with the paperback in hand, feeling slightly more at ease, imagining it as a protective talisman. The need to make connection is strong and yet what he’s been craving lately is solace, peace. Pieces of him are shedding, he thought, and something new has yet to emerge. Alone is not the same as lonely. There’s a difference.
