Neogeneses

           The weather itself would be fair enough for a walk home later that night. Steffan was hanging out with a lady friend who happened to live two blocks away from the home he shared with his brother and mom. After some movies paired with laughter and conversation, it was late, Steffan decided to head home. In the “mean suburbs” of Garland, Texas, 15 minutes outside of Dallas, Black men could usually walk two blocks at night to get home safely. Those suburbs are not that mean.

It was midnight. Following his usual route, Steffan crossed the street and the sidewalks that lined them. Having less than two blocks to walk in his own neighborhood, he would keep his eyes and ears open, wise, aware, alert – just in case.

           When he was two houses away from where he would normally depress a garage transponder, carried as a remote entry “key” in his pocket, an old and dusty red pickup truck swerved around the corner. The audible sound of too much power being sent to tires caused them to lose their connection with the asphalt, screeching. This was a tell that the driver aggressed. The truck barreled up the street.

            Approaching closer, a low male voice boomed from one of the truck’s windows.

           “Get over here!” the voice command.

This demand could not have insisted that any other soul approach the source of rage. Steffan was the only person visible on the sidewalk.

The other seats and the bed of the truck seemed unoccupied. They were empty.

           Seeing a red pickup operated by an angry white folk in this neighborhood…everything about this scene was out of place. The driver was a stranger. He sounded livid, suspicious, irrational; hate often contains these elements. Even outspoken bigots and racists are usually not so bold as to prowl alone in the wrong neighborhood during the night-cloaked hours.

            Steffan felt the ire and the hate. He was being accosted by some angry white guy who might be bigoted and could be violent. This scenario could be life threatening. Society is partially numb to the presence of headlines which state startling statistics. Steffan walked more briskly, knowing that running could confirm a crazed person’s suspicions. The driver was looking for someone, or worse – to accomplish something. The driver jumped out of his truck, charging Steffan, hateful eye contact held.

            Steffan signaled with body language a simple idea: “No!” Not tonight, Satan.

In an instant, Steffan took off. He was running for his life. To avoid leading the perpetrator of a hate crime to his doorstep, Steffan wisely went in a different direction. There were alleyways which ran in between some of the streets proper, bisecting some of the suburban blocks. The alleyway he chose was shaped like an “L,” which meant the line of sight would be cut off. This would obscure the view of Steffan’s location on foot, the direction he ran, the echoes of his movement – and hopefully the path to his home.

           The L-shaped alley was poorly lit. Rain from the prior day had collected in potholes. In a life-or-death adrenaline-fueled sprint, the alley could have killed Steffan. His foot caught the edge of one of the puddles that had looked shallow but had grown deep. He stumbled. Remembering an additional element of fear, flashing back to cinematic images of quarry being pinned by evil pursuers, he felt like he was in a horror movie. If he faltered, he might be caught and killed by the hunter. Reflexes sharpened by the will to stay alive, instead of falling to the ground, Steffan performed a barrel roll. He recovered to his feet in a single motion, regained his footing, and resumed the sprinter’s pace. This was survival.

           Despite being in a rare state of apex adrenaline, the kind of adrenal actuation that is only dosed by the bodies of those who will themselves more life, Steffan’s thinking was clear and tactical. He had already won this chess match, though the duration of this scenario’s midgame was something that would have to be endured. This kind of fear is sometimes called terror.

           Crossing through alleys, weaving in and out of footpaths and the square lines laid down by zoning ordinances, Steffan minted a new labyrinth that was sure to obscure any visual. In this form, he made it back to his house. He triggered a garage door’s motor via radio waves through the depression of a panic button – his house key.

The machinations of the door would produce a distinct sound in the lull of the night air, and the motor’s light bulb would turn on for the half minute or so that it takes a residential garage door to open and securely close. Steffan allowed the door to open partially, slid under, and closed it before it had retracted more than a couple of feet. There was a mild sense of relief behind the thin metal barrier.

           Steffan’s brother was out while his mom was sound asleep. Steffan remembered the lesson of how no signs of activity could be left prone. Threats could persist, looking, searching, hunting. The threat in the red truck persisted for hours. The guy had got back in his truck and was combing the streets. Steffan’s bedroom window faced the street where he was accosted. Adrenaline combined with the flashes of passing headlights – of any make or model – made sleep impossible. Steffan never determined what caused the madman’s pursuit. Drugs? Radicalization? Mental Illness? Raw hate? Boredom? Steffan felt like it was blind, foolish hate.

Many years after the hate crime, and the knee injury sustained from the fall in the alleyway, Steffan recalled that in horror movies, some characters stay down. Others get up and keep going, making it to the end credits of an all-too common American story.