A red man. Don’t walk.
I was waiting at the lights of Nicholson and Alexandra, broad daylight. A presence behind me. A threatening shadow. Suddenly a sharpness pressed into my back, and a whisper.
– Money, now.
I’ve often wondered what we do in these situations. What I would do.
We, of the middle-class bourgeoisie who’ve never been in a fight in our lives, our only knuckle grazes to speak of, taken from a chance encounter upon the rough surfaces of our local’s bespoke coffee tables.
In my mind’s eye, I lull him into a false sense of security. Turn, hands shaking.
– Please, don’t do anything foolish. I’ll give you everything that I have.
It’s in this moment of my weakness that becomes his, and lightning quick I grab the wrist that holds the hand that holds the knife. A struggle ensues, he drops it, I kick it away, he runs away.
It seems despite the daily rush of the intersection, there’s no one there to witness my triumph. I can only mutter words under breath, audible to myself alone.
– You’re damn right, son. You’d better run.
A green man.
Back to reality where in all probability, the outcome mundane would consist of one narrator, out of breath and bereft of a previously cash-laden wallet, reluctantly recounting a story of cowardice and shame.