THE GREAT ESCAPE

By Kati Rounds

He appeared, as the sun sank low in the western sky. Beginning my evening walk down the driveway toward the bike path, I stopped in surprise, as he slowly walked toward me.  Others saw him too, and as he approached us, impervious to those watching, the people parted, like the parting of the Red Sea, allowing him to pass.

He surprised me. Hearing stories about him in the past, I never thought he would show up at our town homes, and it took me off guard.  He certainly was not what I expected. His deportment was deplorable. He was unkept and messy and his smell caused us to back away. His eyes, however, caught my attention. They did not match the rest of him. They were so gentle, so bright, and so aware, through his rough veneer. He did not seem aggressive, but curious as he looked around.  Mary, my middle-aged, outspoken neighbor began to taunt him.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“Yeah, you need to go back where you came from. We don’t want you here,” yelled another.

He looked tired and confused. I was appalled.  What right did we have treating him this way? Sure, he was different. That was apparent, but that give us no right for verbal abuse.

I wondered why he had come. Had he become disoriented and lost his way? Did he have a family waiting for him?  Did hunger bring him here? He certainly looked like he could use a meal. As much as I wondered about him, he seemed to be wondering about us. He didn’t make a sound. He did not fight back while people jeered at him.

“We’re calling the police if you don’t leave.” Mary screamed, as she backed away. He just kept looking from side to side, focused, unafraid, and seeming to take command of the situation.

I stood apart from the others, and quietly watched, amazed at his appearance. He had obviously been on the road for a while. I wished he could tell us his story, but I understood his silence.

He went toward the open garbage dumpster, while off in the distance the sound of sirens announced the arrival of the police. I silently talked to him, knowing he could not hear me.

You should go, before they come. They might hurt you or take you away.

The police car pulled up close to the dumpster, and getting out, a tall, thin police officer started asking questions to the gathering crowd.

“Where is he? Have you ever seen him here before? Did he seem aggressive?”

“He’s in there,” Mary shrilled, pointing toward the dumpster.

“Okay, I want everyone to go to your own homes. Please disperse immediately.”

I went home, which was right behind the dumpster he had gone into, so I could still watch, stunned and ashamed in the way we were all treating him. Here we were, living our nice, neat, regular lives in suburbia. Had we become so callus, so withdrawn from the real world, that we could not accept anything that was different from ourselves? I had never witnessed anything like this before.

“Okay, come on out of there, right now,” commanded the tall patrol officer, holding a mega phone. My gosh, did they think he was deaf?

 My ten-year-old daughter heard the loud booming voice, and came to stand next to me by the window, as he started his escape from the dumpster. He slowly emerged, looking in all directions, trying to figure out his next move. Three police officers lifted guns and cans of pepper spray toward him as the same one yelled,

“Come on out of there, or we’ll shoot.”  Are you kidding? Was that necessary?  I muttered to myself.

He was agitated and obviously confused, looking for an escape. My heart was pounding and the palms of my hands were sweaty. I did not want him to be hurt. I could barely breathe. He looked like he was about to jump, and then, for no reason at all, he turned his attention on us. We froze. There was a window separating him from us, but he seemed too close.

For a long minute, his gentle, searching eyes locked unto my daughter’s, and they were riveted to each other. Both my daughter and he had large brown eyes, and as they stared at each other, with no movement from either one, there seemed to be an unspoken communication between them. They somehow connected, reaching through barriers I thought was not possible, and before realizing it, my throat tightened, and I found tears streaking down my face. I felt drawn to him. Whatever history he had, wherever he came from, it did not matter. My fears and barriers broke down, and instead of seeing his dirty, matted body and breathing in his awful smell, I saw beauty and unquestioning love flash through his eyes. I wanted him to be okay. I willed him to be safe.  I was hypnotized as I watched the exchange that took place between my daughter and him, and I did not want him to go, yet I knew he must, and so did he.

“Mam, please back away from your window.”  I heard the order thundering from behind him, and as he looked away, the spell, the magic was over. We backed away.

You need to go now. Please hurry. Go back to your family. Hurry, I whispered. He seemed to hear me. He scrambled out of the dumpster without looking back or hesitation of any kind, and took off in a full run toward the bike path, with the police following him close behind. What kind of hold did he have on me, that I wanted him to be free, yet that was exactly what I wanted for him?

Several minutes later, many of us collected outside, talking with each other.  I was relieved when the police came back without him. One of the officers came up to me.

“Well, it seems he got away. The golf course, on the other side of the bike path, is a wild life sanctuary, and that is exactly where he headed, as if someone was leading him. It almost seems like he knows we can’t touch him as long as he is over there. We have called animal control to come and take a look around, but we are almost sure he is gone. Can you describe him for us?  What was he, a black bear, or a brown bear?”

“I think brown,” I choked, once more holding back the tears, this time in relief.