A World Slowed

by Rick Tippins

  “Want a beer, man?” one of the men called out, hefting a Coors Light in the air. “They’re warm, but everything’s warm right now with the power out and all.”

  Jared stopped in front of the man. “I’m good, but if you have some water, I’m dying of thirst.”

  The man reached in a cooler and tossed Jared a bottle of water. “You walking home?”

  “Yeah,” Jared replied, opening the bottle before nearly draining it in a single draw. “Thanks, man.” Jared caught his breath, readying himself for another go at the water. He hadn’t realized how good water could taste when one was thirsty. He took another long draw off the bottle before looking at the group. “You guys know what happened?”

  Most of the group shook their heads before the first man replied, “No one knows anything around here. Usually you’d see the cops or the fire department, maybe PG&E running around trying to fix whatever was wrong, but we ain’t seen anyone with a uniform.” He gestured to the cars on the road. “We woke up this morning and all those cars had people sleeping in them. Some folks wanted to sleep in our house—that didn’t happen. Then a few hours after the sun came up, they pretty much all left. We seen a couple of folks like you walking, but no emergency-type people except one guy who came by wearing those pants cops wear, the wool kind, but he had on a jacket to hide the top. We all knew he was a cop and even asked. He denied it and hurried off like he didn’t want anyone to know or something.”

  Jared stared at all the cars in the street, wondering if there was food in any of them. “You guys know if there’s any place to get food around here?”

  The first man shook his head. “No, we really haven’t left except to go down to the corner store, and it was open last night, but only taking cash. The ATM, credit card machine, everything was down.”

  Jared nodded. “Your cell phones work?”

  The man smiled. “I wish. Everything that plugs in or takes a battery is dead.”

  Jared thanked the people for the water and moved on down the road, keeping the empty bottle in case he found a water source he could refill at. It had started, the little voice somewhere in the far reaches of his brain, telling him to hoard, conserve, stockpile and survive.

  He walked two blocks and came to a small neighborhood store, probably the store the man who gave him the water had spoken of. The doors were open and a very tired-looking Middle Eastern man was sitting in a chair in front of the business. As Jared drew closer, the man stood, and Jared could clearly see the man was armed with a pistol in a holster on his right hip. The sight was so foreign to Jared, he was neither alarmed nor shocked, just curious as he stayed on course for the front doors of the business. The man disappeared into the business ahead of Jared and stood waiting behind the register as Jared poked his head into the dark interior.

  “We take cash only,” the man said in heavily accented English.

  Jared felt in his pockets for the cash he always carried. Forty dollars, in the form of two twenty-dollar bills. He pulled the twenties out and held them up so the man could see. The man seemed to relax just a hair, but eyed Jared as he made his way around the store, picking through the granola bars. In the end, he bought six energy bars and a bottle of Smart Water. The man claimed he had to have exact change, so the whole lot cost Jared a twenty-dollar bill.

  Jared walked out of the store and pocketed all the bars except one, which he opened and promptly devoured. He washed the last of the bar down with some of the water, then ate another bar.

  After eating, he continued down the road, reaching the El Camino Real about ten minutes later. Jared knew the El Camino Real, or ECR as it was referred to, would take him all the way to San Francisco if he stayed on it. He only needed to use it to get to the little town of Belmont. He’d walk through Palo Alto and then on through Menlo Park, both very affluent cities and safe for a person like Jared to be on foot in.

  The next town wasn’t so safe. Redwood City was a little dicey to be on foot in, especially after dark, so Jared needed to hurry. Jared had driven through Redwood City many times and, as long as he was in his car, he felt comfortable. There was just that little stretch where he would see what he thought were gang members driving and walking about the streets, and he felt a pang of fear stab at his chest when he thought of this area.

  ECR was littered with cars, even more than the other streets had been. It was a heavily traveled alternative to the 101 highway, and someone on a bicycle would have had a hard time picking their way through the mess left on the road. Jared stayed on the sidewalks and walked past the array of vehicle corpses blocking the street for as far as he could see.

  Somewhere in Palo Alto, Jared saw an elderly man sitting in a Tesla sedan, just sitting and staring out the windshield. Jared ducked down and peered in at the man as he walked by, but the man never moved. Well, whatever had happened, it seemed that a Tesla was not the car to have right now. He moved on, the old man’s face burning itself into his mind, expressionless, or was it hopeless?

  As Jared hurried north on the ECR, the sun began to hang lower on the horizon, and Jared knew he wasn’t going to make it home before night blanketed the sky. He took a deep breath and looked around, realizing he was almost to Redwood City, but still in Menlo Park. He walked, ate another energy bar, and drank some water. He thought about his job and the project he had been working on. He wondered if whatever had happened had affected the company’s servers, hoping none of his work had been lost.

  Chapter Seven

  One thing about the Bay Area and San Mateo County is it has some of the priciest real estate in the world, but it also has some dangerous neighborhoods within a baseball toss of these real-estate gems. Atherton is filled with multimillion-dollar properties, but it borders Redwood City’s neighborhood, which is a Northern California narcotics hub. East Palo Alto and Palo Alto border each other and could not be more different.

  One could be driving and in a matter of seconds leave Palo Alto, one of the most affluent cities on the West Coast, and be in East Palo Alto, one of the most violent cities on the West Coast. Jared walked past the “Welcome to Redwood City” sign, continuing north, all the while looking behind and ahead as if expecting trouble.

  It happened two blocks later; Jared saw them, five young Latino men wearing white T-shirts and dark-colored jeans. The men were standing over a figure who lay crumpled on the ground next to a car. The men were yelling, cursing and threatening the figure. Every now and again, one of the assailants would lean in, delivering a vicious punch as the figure cowered and attempted to protect himself. One of the men kicked the figure, causing the poor wretch to curl into a tighter fetal ball.

  Jared stood frozen, like a deer, not moving for fear the movement would attract their attention.

  “Down here, get down here.”

  Jared heard the voice, close and raspy. His already overwrought nerves nearly sent him fleeing blindly into the surrounding neighborhood. The man was homeless, dirty and unshaven, huddled down off the sidewalk where a small path led to a creek. Jared hadn’t even noticed the small bridge spanning the tiny creek.

  “Move before they see you,” the man hissed, his voice laden with urgency.

  Jared had been so thoroughly startled he hadn’t moved a muscle except to direct his eyes in the direction of the man on the path. Jared glanced back at the Latino men, who had resumed beating and kicking the fallen man, before slowly sidestepping to the edge of the concrete and gingerly stepping down into the tall grass and weeds.

  The homeless man turned and scurried down the slippery trail towards the creek. Once he reached the creek, he turned and picked his way through trash, vegetation, and who knew what else, heading up under the bridge. Jared followed, slipping, tripping and scrambling in an effort to keep up with the filthy man. The homeless man stopped high up under the bridge, where the earth and the concrete of the bridge met.

  A homeless encampment was set up with pallets of wood, a sleeping bag, and some plastic containers the man had food an
d other items stored in. Jared stooped low and stopped short of the pallets as the man turned and sat on the sleeping bag.

  “That was a close call, man.”

  Jared nodded, taking in the encampment and the smell—the smell was of wet body odor and rotting food. Jared tried not to show the welling sensation of nausea that had begun to wash over him. The man moved to one side, making room for Jared on the pallets. Jared held fast, acting as if he didn’t realize the man’s intent.

  “Sit, sit, my man,” the man said, patting the filthy sleeping bag.

  “I’m alright,” Jared lied, his back already starting to ache from the stooped position.

  “The name’s Bob,” said the bum, thrusting out his blackened hand.

  Jared had no idea why he did it, but he reached out and took Bob’s damp, cold and grimy hand. Bob pumped the hand and smiled a less than toothpaste model smile. Bob held Jared’s hand and kept pumping away as his smile began to fade.

  “Well, what’s your fucking name?” rasped Bob.

  Jared’s mouth opened as he tried to gather himself. “Jared, my name’s Jared.”

  Bob released Jared’s aching hand and nodded. Jared’s back was killing him now, so he moved closer to Bob, smelling the rancid odors emitting from the man.

  “Mind if I sit?” Jared asked.

  Bob nodded and Jared moved onto the pallets, moving the sleeping bag aside with his foot. He felt it was better to sit on the wood than on the putrid fabric of that sleeping bag. Jared sat with his legs pulled up under himself, arms wrapped around the front of his knees, feeling very much like he needed a hot shower, some food, and maybe a good microbrew beer.

  “You live down here?” Jared asked.

  “Yep, been down here for ten or fifteen years, ever since I got out of the Army.”

  “Ten years, here, under the bridge?” Jared queried incredulously.

  Bob nodded his head vigorously. “Probably fifteen years, I can’t remember exactly. I get eight hundred dollars a month for my disability, come up, get my check, grab supplies, and come right back down, where it’s safe. I watch all the people from the weeds where I saw you. I know everyone in this neighborhood, and not one of them knows me. Good for you I was up top watching, or you’d be getting the stuffing kicked out of you.”

  Jared smiled wryly and stared at his feet. “Thanks. Why were they beating on that guy?”

  Bob shifted in his seat and stared back up the trail. “They rob folks from time to time, but something ain’t right up topside, ’cause they’ve been at it all day and I ain’t seen one cop since yesterday. I seen ’em rob and beat probably six people just today.”

  The light was starting to disappear as the two sat under the bridge, a world away from what was happening up on the streets.

  Jared gestured at the trail. “They ever come down here?”

  “Naw, they rob folks with things of value. I ain’t got a pot to piss in, man.”

  Jared just bobbed his head in agreement, then shifted his weight, staring up and down the creek bed, the water being the loudest thing he could hear. The yelling had subsided above him on the street, and he shivered at the thought of the poor wretch lying, beaten and bleeding, less than a football field’s length away.

  Was the man dead? Had he gotten to his feet and stumbled off into the neighborhood after the men were done with him? What had they taken from him? What did Jared have that the men would want so badly that they would beat and rob him for it? He stared at his wrist, where he wore a thirty-dollar Casio watch, which was the most valuable thing he possessed at the time, and it didn’t even work now.

  It was getting dark now, and Jared could hardly see the brackish waters of the small creek from where he sat.

  “You drink that water?” Jared asked, gesturing towards the babbling water’s edge.

  “Yeah, I drink it, but you’d better not unless you want to shit your pants for the next four or five days.”

  Jared squinted through the darkness in the direction of the water. “What’s in it that would cause that?”

  Bob shrugged his drooping shoulders. “Dunno, some damn parasite or something.”

  Jared was thirsty again, and the water bottles he saved from earlier were empty. “What happened the first time you drank the water?”

  Bob looked incredulously at Jared. “I shit my pants for five days, dude.”

  Jared grunted, nodded, and stared back at the sound of the creek.

  “If you have to drink creek water to survive, I guess it’s like a rite of passage,” Bob continued.

  The two sat in the darkness, listening to the cheerful noise of the creek. For a moment, Jared relaxed and, other than being a little cold, felt totally at peace in the world. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so absolutely relaxed and detached from the rest of the world. No humming computers, no nagging boss or co-workers. He still had deadlines on projects back at work, but they would assuredly be pushed forward until after this power-outage mess was resolved.

  It was almost like an unexpected vacation, an escape from his rat race of a life. He almost laughed out loud at this thought as he sat under a bridge, with a bum, not a hundred yards from where a man had just been robbed and beaten nearly to death, while contemplating drinking from the roiling waters of a parasite-infested creek. Wow, is my life such a gong show that this is a break from it?

  Gunshots rang out, five, six, maybe seven; Jared couldn’t count as fast as the shooter was pulling the trigger. He rolled off the pallet, cowering in the mud. He hadn’t moved to a better position of concealment or cover; he had simply felt the need to move and had done so without thought. Bob sat still as a statue in the exact spot Jared had left him, not moving except to turn his head and stare dubiously down at Jared.

  “You’ve never been shot at,” Bob stated matter-of-factly.

  Jared’s eyes were wide with fear, the shots sounded like they had been right next to them, and what kind of thing was that to say to someone? Of course, he’d never been shot at.

  “They shooting at us?”

  With this, Bob laughed softly into his hands, muffling the sound and rocking back and forth for a full thirty seconds before composing himself. “Boy, you’ll know when they’re shooting at you, you’ll hear the bullets, and you’ll see me running like there’s no tomorrow.” He laughed quietly for a little longer while Jared stared blankly at him.

  “You been shot at down here?” Jared asked after a short time.

  Bob composed himself again, looking seriously at Jared and shaking his head. “I ain’t been shot at down here, but I been shot at plenty.” Bob lifted his disgusting clothes, exposing his white chest and belly. There was a long scar on Bob’s chest and several smaller scars on his torso. Jared was taken aback by how white Bob’s flesh appeared, as if the filth of living under a bridge in a muddy creek bed had no effect on his body, only his hands and feet.

  “How many times were you shot?” Jared queried, still transfixed on Bob’s snowy white undercarriage.

  “Once. All the other holes are from surgeries I had after the fact.” Bob dropped his clothing back into place and adjusted the soiled layers until they were just right.

  Jared slowly got to his feet and returned to the pallet, sitting with his knees drawn up close to his chest, trying to keep what little heat he had corralled within his chest.

  “It hurt?” he finally got out, almost embarrassed he had even asked the question.

  Again, the look from Bob. “Hell yeah, it hurt. Damn thing missed my heart by an inch and tore a hole in one of my lungs. Almost suffocated during the helicopter ride back to base.”

  “Like a military base?” Jared interjected.

  “Yeah, like a military base. I was in Iraq when I got hit, and that was the end of my military career.”

  “Did you say you were in the Marines?”

  “No, I was in the Army, infantry, thought I’d spend a career there, but then, bam, some sorry fucker sneaks a lucky shot in and I’m
out of the Army, hooked on painkillers, and shortly after that”—Bob gestured with his palms up to the surrounding scenery—“I’m living under this bridge, not in a van down by the river—I’m living under the fucking bridge…down by the river.”

  Bob turned to Jared, who had been listening intently. He looked long and hard at Jared until the young man turned away. Who is this guy who nearly walked into a beating? How can someone be so out of tune with their surroundings that they would willingly walk right into the lion’s den and be eaten without ever seeing it coming? Bob guessed the world was full of these folks, walking around the streets with their heads buried in some electronic device, oblivious to their environment, talking to ten folks over text, but wouldn’t so much as say “hi” or “excuse me” to a real human.

  This Jared guy seemed like the rest of them, but also seemed different. He actually asked about the gunshot wound and asked if they’d been shot at. He had come down into the creek and sat next to Bob and, although Bob could tell the man was repulsed by the conditions, he hadn’t commented on it. Bob decided he liked this Jared guy, he couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, but there was some quality about the man he liked, an innocence, a pure soul, or maybe it was Jared’s wholesome naivety, Bob didn’t know.

  Bob sat contemplating his next move. Should he lend a hand to a complete stranger? Would the lost soul take Bob’s advice, or would he be like so many other people were nowadays, and dismiss his ramblings as those of a deranged homeless bum? Words spewed from the liquor-laden lips of an addict, not to be trusted and certainly not to be listened to by educated, working and functioning people of society. There it was again, that feeling Bob couldn’t place, the feeling that although Jared was just like every other Starbucks-drinking clown he saw on a daily basis, he had a different quality to him. Like right now the man sat in silence, not needing to fill the air with idle and meaningless chitchat. Bob made his decision.