It's Halloween in America, but here the streets are completely void of masked children. The moonlit cobblestones beneath my wheels force my handles to jerk back and forth. It's late, and the fog penetrates my coat, causing chills to run up and down my spine. Gurr is racing back toward our apartment at top speed and all I can do is struggle to keep up. I'm frustrated. Does he not realize that I can't pedal that fast? Without realizing it, my thoughts revert back to earlier in the evening when Gurr and I decided to embark upon this ill-fated journey.
"We have to got to Herkdestad. We can't not show up." Gurr tells me.
The best excuse I come up with is, "Yeah, but Herkdestad is 15 miles away and Anna is never home when she says she'll be. You know that."
"It doesn't matter. We have to go. It's an appointment!" Gurr sharply reminds me.
"You're just trying to waste time! Can you even get us there in the dark?"
"Of course. I've been going there for months, long before you ever came along."
I give up. I know that I'm only arguing for the sake of arguing. Really, we have nothing else to do, and I know it. "Fine, let's just go."
We lumber down the stairs and put on our shoes without any words. He violently jams each foot into his already-tied, very worn shoes while I painstakingly tie each of mine. The sun has just fallen beneath the horizon as we remove the chains binding our bikes to the light pole outside. I've been in Belgium for a full month already and have yet to buy a new bike for myself. I've been getting by on a spare bicycle that the locals have fittingly named a "grandma bike," due to its popularity among seemingly all elderly females. My particular version of the grandma bike is painted completely black with handles that curve upward, much farther than seems necessary, and then out to either side. The basket which hangs off the front always rises up and down in tandem with the loose handlebar, but somehow manages to remain attached during every ride. I've come to rely on this spare grandma bike to get myself anywhere and everywhere on time. For this very reason, I have fondly given her the nickname "Oma," meaning "granny" in the local Flemish tongue. In fact, my primary focus every time I ride Oma is to firmly hold the handlebar in place so that I can retain enough control to navigate the Belgian streets without hitting any car doors or real "omas" hobbling through intersections.
Once our bikes are free, we begin by cutting through our neighborhood until we have found the correct street which will lead us all the way to Herkdestad. Enough Belgians use this road for it to be privileged with having a smooth red bike path on each side. We set ourselves on the right side and commence pedaling in earnest.
It's a long road, but already I have come to recognize the landmarks along the way which signify the distance traveled. First, we cross the long, arcing bridge over the Prince Henrik Canal. We haven't been on the bikes long, so my legs aren't warmed up. I feel my quadriceps loosen as we race to the top. I know that within a few minutes pedaling will become easier as my body stretches and finds its rhythm.
I jealously watch shoppers go about their business at the Carrefour, a higher-end supermarket and my first landmark. I wish I had more time. Time to do whatever I want. Time to waste mindlessly at the park or watching TV. A middle-aged brunette woman is walking her golden retriever. The dog is beautiful and well-groomed; I can see the lines etched into his fur coat by a caring brush even in the dull glow of the streetlight. I wonder how often she walks him, but it's not worth dwelling on. I'll never see her again.
By the time we pass Fajar's apartment, my second landmark, I feel as if I could continue biking until the sun rises again. However, experience reminds me that this feeling will fade before we reach our destination. I'm still following Gurr closely as we approach my third landmark, a much larger-than-life poster of a gorgeous lingerie-clad woman gazing sultrily over her shoulder at all who wish to pass. "Don't stare," I think to myself as I guiltily cast second and third glances in her direction.
My fourth landmark means that we are very close. Not long after passing the orange boards blocking roadside construction, we take the turn into Herkdestad. In reality it's not very late yet. In the U.S., sidewalks and streets are still busy at 8:00 pm. In Belgium, the sun has been down well over an hour, so everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes, closing their metal shutters behind them. The only other human figures which dare to be seen are mannequins staring blankly at us through their windows as we roll jerkily by. In a matter of seconds, we're away from the mannequins and their glittering shops as we burst into the town's main square. A church tower looms overhead, but there is very little light. The stars are becoming blurred by the encroaching clouds and only a few lanterns sitting atop iron poles dare to cast light onto the cobblestone plaza.
Sweet relief at last. Anna's apartment building stands on the left side of the street, one corner awkwardly jutting out into the sidewalk. In silence, we climb the steps up to the door. We buzz her apartment. No answer. We wait. Nothing needs to be said, so instead I buzz a second time to let Gurr know that I'm here and have decided to care. The speaker beside the door responds no differently to my attempt. I break our mutual silence by asking, "Well, should we wait?"
Gurr finds it acceptable to reply, "Yeah, let's wait awhile."
"Okay."
"Maybe she'll come soon. We should wait." Gurr reassures himself.
"I called her yesterday to confirm this appointment. Yesterday!"
"You know how Nigerians are. They're always late."
I nod my head in agreement while mumbling, "Uh huh." It's not Gurr's fault, but I knew this would happen. I knew it.
Gurr tries to console me, "Hey man, at least we held up our end of the deal, right?"
"Yeah, right." I grudgingly say.
Our conversation has reached its end as we find places to sit on the old stone porch. A half hour passes, and I look over at Gurr. He's staring confidently down the street as if he knows that Anna will soon appear. I'm determined to say nothing; I allowed myself to come on this pointless trip and now I will silently accept my fate. Finally, nearly an hour after the appointed time, a very dark, rotund woman approaches in a bright yellow rain coat which skims along the ground behind her. I can't help but chuckle; Nigerians are always a little too well prepared for the rain.
It's Anna, but she walks by without a word. I stopped caring some time ago; I just want to go home. Gurr takes responsibility by declaring, "Anna, it's us!"
Anna hurries quickly to the door before turning and asking, "Who?"
"The elders from the church. Remember?" There's a noticeable hint of despair in Gurr's voice.
"Oh, brothers! How are you today?" Anna's African English sounds like the crystal-clear chime of Christmas bells after an entire month of hearing only slurred Flemish.
Gurr continues by saying, "We're fine. We have an appointment for an hour ago. Have you forgotten?"
"No, no. I do not forget."
"Okay, but we've been waiting here for an hour. We came all the way from Hasselt." There is no mistake that even Gurr wants to impress the seriousness of this offense upon her.
"Yes, but I must working late. You see?"
I feel like the time has come for me to toss in my two cents, so I interject, "Yes, we see. Do you have a few minutes now so we can talk?"
"No, no. Very tired. You see?"
I'm done wasting my time and am already taking the lock off my bike as Gurr stands desperately watching her disappear inside the building. My only retort is silence as we mount our bicycles and pedal back toward Hasselt. My body is exhausted and before we're halfway back I'm counting every streetlight. "Keep going. The harder you pedal now the sooner you'll be in bed," is what I continually tell myself as we push onward.
Gurr is pulling ahead - far ahead. He knows that I'm falling behind, but this is his unvoiced retaliation to my silent anger. We reach the top of the bridge just outside Hasselt and my thoughts immediately snap back to the present. I can see Gurr's black figure flying down the bridge's slope and into the city just as I reach the top. On my way down I notice an old yellow car driving along a street off to my right. I'm a biker, and I have right-of-way. I see the driver look at me; I'm very visible with my yellow light clipped blazing to my basket. Still, I continue on my present course. I know he'll slow down. These Europeans seem to love driving like maniacs.
At the bottom of the bridge I realize it's too late. We're on a collision course and Oma's brakes are no longer in their prime. I pedal harder in order to speed up and miss the car. The car speeds up! What is this guy doing!?! Before I can react, he plows into me, sending me careening into the middle of the road. I'm lying on my side, and my only thought is, "I'm going to die! Some crazy fanatic is about to kill me! I'm going to die! This is crazy! I'm going to die!!!" The driver revs his engine in an attempt to crush me, but only manages to cause the car to rock back and forth. The front bumper comes perilously close as I reach up and try to push the car away. It seems to work! The driver again tries to drive over me, but is once again unsuccessful. As I'm still trying to kick the car away, Gurr runs up and begins to pound furiously on the yellow car's window. It sounds like he might break it. A short, dark-haired woman rushes toward us and screams at the man in the car as he goes into reverse and speeds away.
"Dude, are you okay?" Gurr frantically inquires.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
My suit is torn and my body aches, but I still stand up and walk toward what's left of Oma. The few people that have come realize that I'm up and walking and disband after I reassure them that I'm fine. Moments after gathering the twisted parts and folded wheels that remain of Oma, I understand. Oma being jammed under the front wheels of the car saved my life. Oma, not my futile kicking and pushing, stopped the car from rolling right over me.
I don't know what to think as I drag Oma through the streets back to our apartment. The pain in my leg is quickly growing sharper and forcing me to limp. I'm absolutely incredulous. What just happened is difficult to digest. My state of utter bewilderment is suddenly interrupted by Gurr exclaiming, "That guy was trying to kill you!"
"I know."
"Should we call someone?"
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"No. I really want to go to bed. Let's just not worry about it." I'm beyond caring, but Gurr persists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
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