Mar. 11th, 2009 11:38 am
naked guys never lose a fight
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heatray5dI once faced down a half dozen FSU guys at Axis, but those douchebags are universally cowards when faced with someone who’s not a woman or a very small man. I staggered out of the pit at a Misfits show covered in so much of my own blood that if you put the shirt I was wearing that night under a blacklight you’d be able to see it from space. I’ve been hit by cars seven times over the last ten years. I’ve been afraid plenty of times, but I’ve never felt endangered.
Before Saturday night.
I never go to Jamaica Plain. Which is sad, because JP is a cool town, and it’s not like it’s far away. It’s five miles from my house. Arlington and Watertown are both the same distance, and I go there all the time. This is true of most people who live north of the river; it’s as if the Charles were an impassable flow of boiling magma, spewing poisonous gasses into the air to choke anyone attempting to cross the bridge. Mention going to JP to someone in Cambridge, and they will look at you like you suggested a trip to Abbith to visit Nyarlathotep in the joint.
Most places north of the Charles and west of the Mystic I can find my way to. I’ve been here long enough to begin navigating in the traditional New England way, using Dunkin’ Donuts and things that aren’t there any more as landmarks. Street signs are a novelty to be remarked on, but not read, because they’re usually so bent that deciphering which street they refer to is futile.
Since I never go to JP, I don’t have the same ability to navigate. Going to a party there requires careful planning. I sat for forty minutes with a notebook, Google Maps, and a cycling map of eastern Massachusetts, working out the most efficient path to my destination. Luckily, I discovered a bike path that runs almost the entire way from the Fenway to my friend’s house in JP. Such things make my life easy, especially since the most direct road is a narrow four-lane highway with no breakdown lane.
It began to rain as I rode onto the northern end of the bike path, and I was thankful that the tree cover – despite being leafless from winter – was thick enough to block the worst of it. I soon rescinded my thanks as the unlit path drew away from the road, and the trees blocked most of the light from the increasingly distant street lamps. I was quickly left with only my bicycle headlamp for illumination as I rode along an indistinct path paved in black mud.
My overactive imagination enjoys such situations. I often image a sledgehammer or axe blade whipping out of the darkness and into my chest, or something huge and strong dropping on me from the trees. I never think about muggers. The worst that could happen to me getting mugged is I’d get beat up. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about zombies and serial killers.
This bike path is creepier than your usual dark path. The stream on one side is frozen and luminous. You are surrounded by bare trees, and limbs reach crooked fingers out to snag hair and clothes. The rain weighs down the leaves, leaving the path silent except for the gritty sound of your tires on thin mud. You are aware of the city just on the other side of the tress, but you know that it cannot see you, and doesn’t care what happens here. You could hit a pothole in the dark, fly from the bike, and bleed to death among the trees. No one would find you until morning.
I’d decided to get off the muddy, unlit path and just take my chances on the road, where I could at least see the surface on which I’d be riding, when I saw a man – or the shape of a man – sitting on a bench about a hundred feet in front of me.
As I got closer, the tiny spill of light filtering through the trees reflected from the skin of his back, and I realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Which, despite the fact that it’s March, didn’t seem totally unreasonable – Saturday was quite warm. Anyone jogging, even in the rain, might well do so with no shirt on.
As soon as I reached that conclusion, I got close enough to see that he also had no pants on. No clothes at all in fact. He had something bundled in his lap, but was otherwise completely nude. He was rocking rapidly back and forth.
I had accelerated steadily as I approached this man, not wanting to be a slow-moving target if he was someone who intended harm. Now, he suddenly made eye contact with me. His rocking stopped, and I saw him tense, hunching his back and drawing his legs under him, as if getting ready to jump off the bench. I dropped into a sprint.
As I zipped past him, I fully expected to be tackled from the side, and all I could think of was how much it was going to suck.
There’s a reason I don’t worry about being mugged. If a guy doesn’t have a gun, I can fight or run away. Even if I get the crap kicked out of me, I can still hold onto my resistance as a kind of victory. Chances are, nothing really bad will happen to me.
But nudity totally changes the equation. If a naked guy even touches you, I feel like he’s won some kind of victory. If you’re in a fistfight with a naked guy in a park, you’ve already lost.
I saw him move as I passed, but I don’t know if he jumped at me and missed, or ran after me or what. I was going too fast, and it was too dark to take my eyes off the path directly in front of my front wheel. I was also afraid that if I looked, he’d be right behind me, chasing me Terminator-style, nude and implacable.
I finally found an exit from the path back onto the road, stopped, and turned around. No sign of him. Nothing but the pitch black of the path curving through the trees and out of sight.
Before Saturday night.
I never go to Jamaica Plain. Which is sad, because JP is a cool town, and it’s not like it’s far away. It’s five miles from my house. Arlington and Watertown are both the same distance, and I go there all the time. This is true of most people who live north of the river; it’s as if the Charles were an impassable flow of boiling magma, spewing poisonous gasses into the air to choke anyone attempting to cross the bridge. Mention going to JP to someone in Cambridge, and they will look at you like you suggested a trip to Abbith to visit Nyarlathotep in the joint.
Most places north of the Charles and west of the Mystic I can find my way to. I’ve been here long enough to begin navigating in the traditional New England way, using Dunkin’ Donuts and things that aren’t there any more as landmarks. Street signs are a novelty to be remarked on, but not read, because they’re usually so bent that deciphering which street they refer to is futile.
Since I never go to JP, I don’t have the same ability to navigate. Going to a party there requires careful planning. I sat for forty minutes with a notebook, Google Maps, and a cycling map of eastern Massachusetts, working out the most efficient path to my destination. Luckily, I discovered a bike path that runs almost the entire way from the Fenway to my friend’s house in JP. Such things make my life easy, especially since the most direct road is a narrow four-lane highway with no breakdown lane.
It began to rain as I rode onto the northern end of the bike path, and I was thankful that the tree cover – despite being leafless from winter – was thick enough to block the worst of it. I soon rescinded my thanks as the unlit path drew away from the road, and the trees blocked most of the light from the increasingly distant street lamps. I was quickly left with only my bicycle headlamp for illumination as I rode along an indistinct path paved in black mud.
My overactive imagination enjoys such situations. I often image a sledgehammer or axe blade whipping out of the darkness and into my chest, or something huge and strong dropping on me from the trees. I never think about muggers. The worst that could happen to me getting mugged is I’d get beat up. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about zombies and serial killers.
This bike path is creepier than your usual dark path. The stream on one side is frozen and luminous. You are surrounded by bare trees, and limbs reach crooked fingers out to snag hair and clothes. The rain weighs down the leaves, leaving the path silent except for the gritty sound of your tires on thin mud. You are aware of the city just on the other side of the tress, but you know that it cannot see you, and doesn’t care what happens here. You could hit a pothole in the dark, fly from the bike, and bleed to death among the trees. No one would find you until morning.
I’d decided to get off the muddy, unlit path and just take my chances on the road, where I could at least see the surface on which I’d be riding, when I saw a man – or the shape of a man – sitting on a bench about a hundred feet in front of me.
As I got closer, the tiny spill of light filtering through the trees reflected from the skin of his back, and I realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Which, despite the fact that it’s March, didn’t seem totally unreasonable – Saturday was quite warm. Anyone jogging, even in the rain, might well do so with no shirt on.
As soon as I reached that conclusion, I got close enough to see that he also had no pants on. No clothes at all in fact. He had something bundled in his lap, but was otherwise completely nude. He was rocking rapidly back and forth.
I had accelerated steadily as I approached this man, not wanting to be a slow-moving target if he was someone who intended harm. Now, he suddenly made eye contact with me. His rocking stopped, and I saw him tense, hunching his back and drawing his legs under him, as if getting ready to jump off the bench. I dropped into a sprint.
As I zipped past him, I fully expected to be tackled from the side, and all I could think of was how much it was going to suck.
There’s a reason I don’t worry about being mugged. If a guy doesn’t have a gun, I can fight or run away. Even if I get the crap kicked out of me, I can still hold onto my resistance as a kind of victory. Chances are, nothing really bad will happen to me.
But nudity totally changes the equation. If a naked guy even touches you, I feel like he’s won some kind of victory. If you’re in a fistfight with a naked guy in a park, you’ve already lost.
I saw him move as I passed, but I don’t know if he jumped at me and missed, or ran after me or what. I was going too fast, and it was too dark to take my eyes off the path directly in front of my front wheel. I was also afraid that if I looked, he’d be right behind me, chasing me Terminator-style, nude and implacable.
I finally found an exit from the path back onto the road, stopped, and turned around. No sign of him. Nothing but the pitch black of the path curving through the trees and out of sight.
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no subject
If you see something like that again, call the police immediately when you get to your destination.
He may have been a victim himself...
no subject
no subject
When I lived in Chicago, for a while people were stealing bicycles by jumping at the people who were riding along the lakefront and knocking people off their bicycles. Somehow I led a charmed existence and never got knocked off my bike, even though it was a reasonably nice one. I think it was my skull windbreaker that did it. Nobody was sure which gang I belonged to so they left me alone.
no subject
Also that was a horrible horrible vision in my head. I think I would have died a little bit in your shoes.
no subject
NAKED ZOMBIE MUGGER HAS YOUR SCENT NOW!
no subject
no subject
It's kind of frightening just to read. Humans losing their shit for no discernable reason are always the scariest 'monsters'.
no subject
Glad you're OK!
no subject
no subject