This is a non-fictional story that I recently wrote. Enjoy! (Again, comments and criticism are very welcome!)

I Just Want to Walk

He stumbled and I slowed down.

            It was cruel of me to brake as I did, and then speed off, the man’s quivering, outstretched thumb a memory in my rearview mirror.

            The molten sensation of guilt seeped from my chest, towards my stomach.

            The night was too cold and the sidewalk too empty for any person to be walking alone.

I had almost cleared a curb, near a remarkably similar string of Italian restaurants, when I made a tidy u-turn and raced back. It was difficult to spot his middle-aged figure on the dusky road.

But I found him. His bloodshot eyes followed me until I stopped and called to him.

“Do you need a ride?” I asked, quietly tucking a dented can of pepper spray under my thigh.

He nodded. “Yeah…” he said. His eyes were glazed with alcohol and dull relief. “Yeah, I do.” And he lopped around the hood of my car. His shoulders sagged with the weight of a night alone as he settled in. I asked him softly- cautiously- where he wanted to go.

He nodded towards the road. “Just keep straight.” His voice wavered with the authenticity of a drunken man. But he looked tired and numb to judgment, so I didn’t bother.

My lead foot did not waste any time, and we drove a little too fast into the dark.

His heavy breathing contributed only a steady rhythm to our brief and comfortable silence.

“What’s your name?” he asked me, after a moment.

“Alex.” I gave him my cousin’s name. Alexandra was a name I had always been jealous of, with all of its pretty variations. I was proud to call ‘Alex’ my alias. The polite thing to do would have been to ask what he called himself, but I kept my eyes on the road, wondering what other lies I would have to invent.

“Where are you from, Alex?”

I braked for a red light, using the pause to think of an answer.

“I’m…” I snapped my mouth shut to prevent any stuttering. “I’m visiting home from college.”

“Where do you go to college?”

“Penn State.” I told him the first University, besides my own, that was stored in my thoughts.

“Where do you live, now?” He asked, and I looked at him with waning patience.

I was just returning from a friend’s house, in Paoli, before I had picked him up.

“Paoli,” I said, smiling. Then I looked at him, pointedly. “Where do you live? Where do you want me to take you?” My thoughts began to race. What if he never got out? What if we simply drove forever? Then I wondered:

Would that be such a bad thing?

            He, a caustic adventurer, had surely seen much more of the world than me. And for that I was jealous. I wanted to explore and, without any cares, hop into the next car. Only then would I be truly unafraid.

He ignored my questions and continued to stare at the road, with a blank expression I had come to expect. So I drove on.

When he next opened his mouth, it was to give me very detailed directions about which roads I wanted to take to get from Paoli to Penn State. He told me about highways and secret routes I never would have thought of. Routes that were, perhaps, only figments of his imagination.

We drove a few minutes longer. He talked and I listened. The man never mentioned anything about himself, and for that I was sorry.

We stopped at another light. During the day the street, bordered with boutiques and yogurt shops, would have been crowded with angry drivers.

We were in the only car on the road, so I swiveled my body to look directly at him.

“Where do you want me to take you?” I asked with finality.

He looked through me.

            “Don’t pick up another stranger.” he said. There was no malice in his voice. There was only fatherly concern, and I couldn’t speak. How such a broken man could be concerned for my well-being weighed heavily upon my heart.

            I blinked at his unexpected warning.

            “Okay,” I said, warmth surfacing in my chest.

            “You should never pick up someone you don’t know.” His words began to slur, and blend together.

            I glanced over, and gave him my solemn word.

            He nodded, satisfied, eyes clearing for a moment.

            “I’ll get off here,” he said, as we stopped at another light.

            “Is this where you live?” I frowned. There was no way he could possibly live amidst, or even behind, the little stores surrounding us.

            “No,” he said. “I live behind the bar.” I thought about where I’d picked him up, a few miles away, remembering a bar directly behind him.

            I didn’t know how to respond. “Would you like me to-”

            “I just want to walk.” He said, and opened the door. “I just like to walk.”

            I sat back, watching him stagger across the intersection, and I nearly wept.