What’s a goon to a goblin?
She’s wearing a bright pink blouse, bright enough to dance like a flame in the pitch black night as I drive past into the gate of my apartment complex. The movement catches the periphery of my mind in time to notice the 250 pound man holding her wrists and tugging, struggling.
My windows are down and Lil Wayne plays on the stereo. Or maybe it’s Young Jeezy. Or Rick Ross. Whatever it was, it had a keyboard hook and lyrics anthemic enough to keep my heart rate above 80 on this Monday morning at two AM.
“Here we go,” I say aloud.
My car continues to coast around the corner as I watch in the side view mirror, assessing. I pull into a space in front of my building and remove myself from my car as well as from my emotion. Patiently I walk the one thousand feet back, increasing my pace as I hear a few cries.
Did she just yell out for help? It sounded like ‘help.’ It was one syllable— how many one syllable words don’t indicate duress?
Here’s the moment. The point of no return where the call for action from within is so great it can’t be ignored. Some chemical erupts and suddenly the world is still. In an instant, like a gasp on a waterboarding table or a jolt from an officer’s tazer, you are alert. Nothing exists outside of this moment and the feeling of reason and logic is overwhelming. All senses are heightened and breathing feels like it must have in the delivery room on day one. The mind races but is completely calm.
The dry Florida August heat evenly stings my pores. This air feels great. A strong oak scent lingers listlessly. There are no oak trees in sight. Maybe it was the one I passed a minute ago. Everything is unified and the rush of blood and information is mildly dizzying.
They’re now on the other side of the mail center. I check my own mailbox and find nothing. The surreal solipsism is fortified by this surprise. My daily mail delivery can barely fit in the box, and tonight: nothing. Am I already in bed? Is this happening?
It doesn’t matter now. (Nothing matters… especially not the day of the week or surmising that it could be the one day the postal service doesn’t work.) I’m led by an entity that’s been fine-tuned for 26 years, and getting better at its role each day. I’m the terrorist strapped with C-4. I’m the college boy screaming at the cops. I’m ready.
There they are coming around the corner. Listen. She’s crying. He’s coaxing. He’s apologizing. They’re walking in front of me and he sees me. Assess. Always assessing. I input the data and orient it to my principles. I believe in minding one’s own business, so I must observe more before I decide to compromise that principle.
“Why are you here?” asks the voice. “Is it because you’re feeding into a hero fantasy?”
No.
“Is it because you find her attractive?”
Trick question- I don’t. But maybe she looked good when she was a few years youn-
“No tangents! Is it because she could possibly need help in this moment and you’re the only one on earth available and ready to respond?”
Yes.
“Will you be able to sleep later if you don’t respond?”
Not immediately.
“Good answer. Go.”
She approaches an apartment door and opens it. He lingers behind. I jingle my keys softly and she turns to see me, stepping back outside. She walks in my wake as I saunter away from the man. She slinks into a picnic table and sobs and I turn around to stand facing her. Observe the placement of the man and delete him from the environment.
I must give her the chance to ask for help. The only way to elicit a sincere reply would be to give her unequivocal faith that I have a solution if she has a problem. Above all, she must know that no answer will put me at risk. The only risk I face is emasculating myself by not taking responsibility for my surroundings, and inaction at this point would be fatal.
“HEY. Is everything all right?” I ask sternly with only a hint of consolation. My shoulders fronting her and held high. I don’t smile; my eyes are winced slightly and glaring into hers. I wait motionless. With the street light at my back I probably look like a ghostly silhouette in this dark corner of the complex.
She stops sobbing and pauses before answering, “Yeah.” A calm seems to pass over her— as if she also deleted the man standing right behind her— that says any danger is not immediate. I believe her and nod with an “OK” and leave.
***
This is manhood. A nauseating cocktail of adrenaline and testosterone, like a biological Jagerbomb. Every day feels like falling off the wagon for the first time. The neverending observe-assess-act loop is exhausting, but the burden of decisiveness fuels the libido to the point where you wonder if the reason you don’t wear shorts is a fear of standing in exposure. It’s the intersection of gender roles and individuation. It’s your lifeblood.
Offering assistance to others is an exercise in decision-making obviously more difficult than assisting ourselves. Serving the chance for someone to choose his or her own direction while refraining from guiding them is a tough task, but it’s the ultimate rehearsal for personal responsibility in our own lives.
We need calculatedly slow bodies but deliberately fast minds.
We can strive daily to be better men if we can learn to contain this rush of chemical and even enact it at will. If every decision loop is treated as the potentially life-altering moment it truly is, we can indulge in the same awareness and hyperalertness to consequence that follows.
We can protect value at an infinitely greater rate in a vacuum. We can create value in a continuum. And most crucially, we can perpetually ask ourselves:
“is everything all right?”
