 |
A while back, nobody knows when for certain, a 50-ish man died near Old Brasstown Road. He lay unnoticed long enough for his body to decompose.
By the time the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office found him in February
this year, most of his body had already returned to
dust. They were able to
tell from his bones that he was a tall man. He left a few possessions, including a digital camera. Deputies uploaded the pictures, but apparently they provided few clues.
They also found two pairs of glasses, which could mean he was a man with some forethought. He had been wearing a watch, so he either had some regard for time or it was a gift that meant something to him. He was carrying a flashlight, so he likely died at night.
Perhaps he was out there meeting a secret lover. Maybe he was digging a tunnel under the bank. Could he have been a sinister man waiting to ambush someone who out-ambushed him?
The point is, we’ll never know who he was nor how he lived nor his favorite flavor of ice cream. Since he died on our watch in Cherokee County, that makes him one of us. I’m probably sensitive to such matters because I nearly died as an unknown woman on an ordinary street in Cape Town, South Africa.
My survival instinct is flight. When my husband left, I ran away to South Africa. I interned as a writer at a marketing firm, where I was warned to never walk the streets from 4 p.m. until sunrise.
“Eets not safe,” my boss would tell me.
I was given other instructions as well.
“Carry your backpack in the front,” my hip, young coworkers instructed. “Never, never use your cellphone on the street.”
Most of the time, I walked in a stupor of pain. That may explain why, one day after work when my Uber canceled, I broke all three rules at once.
“I’ll just walk home,” told myself, like I was special and set apart.
It was a 2-mile walk, mostly through town. I felt comfortable enough, as I walked that route to work every morning. I slung my pack onto my back and took out my cell to chat with my twin sister. I was so engrossed in our conversation – and it was a video chat so my phone was held out as if a beacon to robbers – that it took me some time to know I was in danger.
A man appeared from wherever bad men appear and asked me for money. I wasn’t too bothered. This happened all the time. The economic stratification in South Africa was such that the have-nots overwhelmingly outnumbered the haves.
I continued talking with my sister while pulling out a 5 rand (75 cents) to hand him. I considered the transaction done and dusted. I walked a few more steps, all the while oblivious and stupid.
“Give me your money!” the man said again.
I looked at my sister and rolled my eyes like, “Get a load of this guy. What a greedy Gus.”
“I just gave you money,” I said, and kept walking.
Suddenly, he smashed himself up against me, grabbing me around my waist. I tried to pull away, more annoyed than frightened, when I saw something sparkle in his hand. It was not glitter.
“I’m going to kill you,” he said, holding a knife that looked as if it had just returned from a recent
stabbing.
I tried harder to break free, but that knife was up against my neck now. He was dexterous, I’ll give him that. I yelled at my sister.
“Call the police; I’m being mugged!”
The man swiped for the phone, but I dropped it in the struggle. I craned my neck back to what was, just seconds ago, a bustling street with children playing. It was vacant.
“Call the police,” I shouted to no one. “I’m being mugged!”
The man pressed the knife into my neck with enough force to leave an impression.
“Give my your bag,” he demanded.
I don’t know why he didn’t just use his knife to slice the shoulder straps like all the other robbers in town, nor even why I didn’t slip it off and hand it to him. Perhaps I felt too much had been taken from me at that point. But I refused him my version of two pairs of glasses and a flashlight.
I could hear my sister yelling, “What street are you on?” I had no idea.
It all ended rather quickly. I knew from his flat eyes that he could kill me and still enjoy his supper. Escape was my only hope.
I slammed my left leg into his body in a kind of awkward side-kick. It was forceful enough to surprise him. We finished the dance separately. He spun, trying to rebalance, and I scooped up my phone and ran.
I know how the gazelle outruns the lioness. The prey has the advantage. The predator is merely hungry for something. The prey runs as she has everything to lose.
I made it home and called the police, who never came. Had I died on that street, I would have been reduced to an unidentified body.
Nobody would know I was from America, that my secret ambition was to earn a Ph.D., or that my favorite ice cream was Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. My joy at living, my ongoing love affair for the Appalachian Mountains, that time I was really mean to Debbie Garland in high school because she told me my socks smelled bad after gym class – the whole handbag of who I was on this planet would have been lost.
The authorities would say, “She was tall” or “she wore impractical shoes for walking.” Like the man on Brasstown Road, my entire personhood would be reduced to quantitative measurements and cursory assessments.
So I’ve named the man Robert, and in my mind he was an ornithologist, out that night to photograph owls. He loved pasta with meat sauce and was afraid of Ferris wheels. He loved once, steadfastly, but his attentions were unrequited.
Robert despised big box stores, preferring to find treasures among independent shops. It’s where he found the watch he was wearing. He didn’t care much for fancy clothes, but was particular about his shoes. He had a booming laugh that balanced his quiet voice.
And he loved chocolate malted milkshakes thick enough to require a spoon.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.