Vigilance Lurking
Joseph R Schmidt
Someone once said the night was dark enough without the moon and darker yet without a splinter of hope. Where maybe that was true then, it is different now, different tonight. I will endure much through steady patience, to make that difference. No one wants to be mugged, I don't think--at least, I presume.
The online tabloids are riddled with the crime-spree near where I am, data mining the chat rooms has only affirmed it. Just inside this little alley, which is dark but for a simple protected bulb over the restaurant's back door, the odds are good for the vigilance. I smell Oriental take-out, Thai probably. With the recent crime, it is little wonder that business is slow and the food has gone to waste. As long as the local police won't clean up the shady parts of this city, and as long as the citizens can't go about their nice little lives, then someone has to make sure they can.
Out-of-towners, fooled by outdated vacation websites walk these recently fouled streets filled with opportunistic predators. They pass this alley, unaware that I lurk on their behalf. Crouching near the spoiling mass of half-day old food, the air both humid and stale forces me to smell my own sweat. I'm not young anymore, and my knees ache.
And just now, a couple walks past, boyfriend and girlfriend, too involved in forming their quaint duet to notice the suspicious lot following them. Young Boyfriend wears a Sears sport coat, and young Girlfriend has blonde hair that she likes to twirl in one hand. They dawdle along, holding hands. The suspicious bad ones are not that obvious, I know, but I can see them as they work, a street merchant here and a drunken fool there have blocked certain routes, guiding the lovers into a trap.
This is my time to shine in this dismal darkness, to take the streets from those who unjustly own them; I can sense it.
Girlfriend laughs, not loudly, and they stagger together. Foolishness infused by young love. It is not right to be jealous, but I am. I have not forgotten my Sarah, lost to me, lost to the world. Forgiveness is right; forgetting is not necessary. Acquittal is not forgiveness when technicality overrides witness. To lose the one you so deeply love is tragic enough, but when the courts can't deliver justice because the cops can't collect evidence, then I can't live with the world they way it is.
Today I hold truth as baton-left and justice as baton-right, each gripped firmly in my hands.
From behind, a lanky man quickly steps up to commingled Boyfriend and Girlfriend. He looks like a fashion model from the late nineties, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and Wal-Mart baggy pants with self-applied chains. "Yo gimme!" Nineties says, and brandishes a short knife.
Boyfriend turns, alarmed. His sudden realization shows on his face, and Girlfriend steps behind him, but that is of little use, for Boyfriend sees why as another thug closes off the rear. The chick looks like one of the Indigo Girls; I can't be sure which.
"Yo gimme it all," Nineties says.
"Here take it," Boyfriend replies, holding his hands up at first and then reaching slowly into his Sears sport coat.
Indigo Chick grabs Girlfriend by her arm and tugs her roughly.
"It's not much," Boyfriend says. "Just don't hurt us."
It won't be enough, I think. It never is. Not enough to satisfy Nineties and Indigo Chick, but I can't help them, not yet. Instead, I hope that Boyfriend makes too much trouble; I hope he gets beat down. Don't get me wrong: I want to help hikm. I want to help him protect her. And I could, I know. I want to tell myself that I am here to protect the ordinary man, but maybe I'm not. I wait for Drunken-Fool, the leader who is not drunk and not a fool. He is the strongest, self-appointed by his strength.
Indigo Chick wants Girlfriend's earrings, diamond studs and not too large. She works at it but her hands are shaking. Sobbing, sounding like my Sarah, before it happened. Indigo Chick tells her to hurry up and pushes her, but how can that be necessary?
"Let me help her," Boyfriend says and turns to do so.
With a lanky arm, Nineties beats him down. Boyfriend just wants to get along and go about their business, but Nineties starts to kick him. Girlfriend screams; she doesn't know what else to do. Too young for this, she is, and she can't be calm. Drunken Fool has come, at last. Not with a hint of swagger, rather exuding nastiness. He can't want the noise, the attention. He is close.
In two lunging steps, I feel my black cloak tug from where I had been. My knees spring despite their years. Nineties flinches to block and that is all before baton-left finds his elbow with a crushing smack. He drops his knife. He drops to his knees. I step over Boyfriend, driving my foot deep into Nineties' side. Indigo Chick wants to run, so I let her retreat a step before baton-right leaves my hand to touch the back of her head. She stumbles forward with awkward steps.
Girlfriend screams again; she's too short of breath.
Drunken-Fool, not so foolish but ugly-bad, has a stick of his own from somewhere under his baggy clothes. He swings it at my head, so I dodge and I duck. He swings it back--but of course he did, and I block it at his elbow because I am now so close. But Drunken-Fool is faster than I expect and rams his fist into my old ribs. It hurts neon pink, and my breath stops, but baton-left connects below his chin. Drunken-Fool's head snaps back and the fight in his eyes turns foggy. Nineties stirs from his knees, and I thrust a foot into his face. He topples over. I see Indigo Chick is down face first on the sidewalk.
Girlfriend has stopped screaming and Boyfriend is standing there worried as he looks around. The sparse patrons have stopped to look.
"Are you OK?" Boyfriend asks. Of course, I'm not OK. OK people aren't vigilantes. Maybe he means something else. He steps closer to engage me. I don't want to talk. The tension has been released, and I feel that all is calm again.
I grab the nylon ties from under my black cloak and fasten Drunken-Fool first, followed by Nineties.
"You saved me," Boyfriend says.
I know I did, but I don't want to tell him what he already knows.
I have no time to tie Indigo Chick.
"Thank-you." Boyfriend feels awkward--this I know, while I feel calm.
More movement from around me than what I can tolerate. The police are arriving like elephants in a tranquil pool.
I step away, at last, looking at him. His frightened eyes tell me he meant what he said. It's enough, isn't it? It's why I've struck. It has to be. But those few moments of vigilance are now disturbed by those flocking around me, and the elation of commuted retribution is fading.
Boyfriend reaches for Girlfriend.
My Sarah is still dead, and I cannot find solace.
"Who are you?" Girlfriend asks.
With banal resolution, I stride for the alley, find my rope, scale the wall, and stand on the rooftop. The police are sorting it out, and the people are pointing to where I stand. Up here, there is a sea breeze and I feel a tug on my collar.
I am Black Cloak. I want to say it; I want to share it. But instead, I fade into the night.