Asphaltwalker
Tales of the subconscious part 2
Sometimes my stupidity is my greatest asset. Let me tell you a tale.
There I was, walking down the street with a woman I’d been seeing for a couple of months. Our date was going well. Then I ridiculed her for drooling over a designer toaster in a yuppie kitchen store. Now our date was not going so well. Attempts at conversation were met with icy silence. As we walked, it started to rain.
We arrived at an intersection that was partially closed for road work. As we waited for our signal to cross, I stared blankly at the heavy trucks and steamrollers, trying to think of a way to move us past the yuppie toaster incident and back to our previously scheduled euphoria.
There had to be a gesture that would turn it all around—I just had to figure out what it was.
Then the flagperson waved at us, and we stepped out into the street.
About halfway through the crossing, I got the feeling that something was not quite right. My first clue was the pair of reflector-jacketed men to my left. They were staring at me with the oddest smirks on their faces. Something wasn’t quite right about those smirks.
Then I noticed that my date wasn’t walking next to me. Instead, she was crossing several meters to my right, and staring at me with a mixture of concern and amusement. That wasn’t quite right either.
Then I became aware that the street beneath my feet was... hissing? Yes, it was hissing. Wisps of steam could be seen rising in the drizzle. Now, that was definitely not right. And speaking of the street, it was horribly lumpy and uneven—in fact, it looked downright sloppy. “Where’s a steamroller when you need one?” I thought.
Then it hit me. I was walking across a four-lane expanse of boiling, freshly-laid asphalt.
The moment I came to this revelation, two things happened. First, the world seemed to snap into slow motion. And second, I forgot how to walk.
Now don’t get me wrong—I’ve done a lot of walking in my life, and at the risk of seeming immodest, I’m pretty good at it. But right then, all my walking expertise evaporated like the raindrops around my feet. I was overwhelmed by a nightmarish vision. As if from above, I saw myself falling spread-eagled onto the asphalt and helplessly thrashing about until every part of my body was severely burned. I was paralysed by fear.
But paralysis was no good to me, I knew this. I was, after all, in mid-stride. Even in slow motion, I would have to do something intelligent with my legs soon, or my cherished flesh would sizzle. But there was nothing I could do. I was going to fall. I was doomed.
Then, somewhere deep in my psyche, a voice spoke.
Glen.
Hello?
This is your subconscious mind speaking. I don’t usually make conscious appearances, but in this case I’m making an exception.
Oh, hi.
You dumb shit. Do me a favour.
Um... what?
Let me take care of this. Just shut up and do what I say, alright?
Alright.
I’m serious. Don’t screw this up.
Sure.
Okay, first things first. Your left foot is falling behind. Lift it. Lift it! Lift, damn you, lift!
I concentrated. Incredibly, as if it were attached to the end of my leg, my left foot began to lift.
Watch out for your right leg, you idiot! Whew, that was close. Now move it forward... good, good... now shift your weight to the left, and... contact! Okay, now lift the right foot....
And I walked. It was a strangely exhilarating experience, like I were an awe-struck child exploring the wondrous possibilities of my body all over again, except infused with panic and terror.
And left... and right... and left... you’re almost there, moron... and right... and left....
Finally, I stepped off the asphalt and onto the sidewalk. The ground beneath my feet took on the familiar non-hissing sound to which I was accustomed. I breathed a sigh of relief. My peril was at an end.
It was then that my stupidity worked its magic. You see, my date was hell-bent on being annoyed with me for the rest of the afternoon, but the sight of me absent-mindedly wandering onto boiling asphalt was just too endearing. She was trying her best not to smile, but she wasn’t succeeding. When I showed her that the soles of my new shoes had visibly melted, she broke into a wide grin.
“You’re such an idiot!” she sneered. But I knew she was charmed nonetheless, and my place in her bed that night was assured. Our date had been rescued from the brink of disaster, thanks to some quick thoughtlessness on my part.
This, dear reader, is the power of my stupidity. Simply put, I have a talent for doing things that are so idiotic, onlookers can’t help but love me utterly. I don’t know where I got it from, but I have it, and it’s saved my ass almost as many times as it’s put my ass in danger.
As we walked away from that fateful intersection, I took my date’s hand in mine. “I did that on purpose, you know, just to impress you,” I said.
“Really,” she replied in a sceptical tone of voice.
“Absolutely,” I said.
At that moment, I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. My heart shot into my throat. A thousand images of my charred corpse flashed through my mind.
The next thing I knew, I was no longer tripping. And what’s more, I had covered my misstep so well that my date hadn’t even noticed. I’ve always been good at that.
No, I have.
Shut up. •
Originally published in The Peak, May 8 2000.
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