Street lamps light the asphalt and cement of Ashland Avenue, unexpectedly vacant even for midnight on a freezing Friday. Exhausted but watchful on the ride home from a north-side theater, I slackly pedal my bicycle south between Taylor Street and Roosevelt Road.
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Now I really pump the pedals, my eyes never leaving the runner’s narrow, wedge-shaped reptilian face. He’s been staring at me–a fat guy in the waning 30s–since I saw him. He’s not jogging, I realize, not running for an owl-service bus: it’s me he’s after. He’s hustling so hard the soles of his athletic shoes slap pavement.
This quietly intense Mike Singletary-with-screws-loose is almost on top of me. Failing to cut me off from in front, and missing a clean grip on my body, clothing, or shoulder bag, he is not quite alongside. Mentally preparing for a fall, I already picture disentangling myself from the downed bike and painfully resisting at close quarters.
Pieces of brick clunking behind me and to my right, I shout too. “I love you,” I holler, not knowing why. “God loves you!” “Fuck you,” the biggest kid fires back.
The officers take the motorist’s name, address, and phone number but not mine. The young Latino and I describe where we were attacked, and the squad car whirls around with a squeaky U-turn. The worked-up man waves me toward him, so I dismount from the bicycle. He leads me to his car, pointing at three or four imploded blisters on its finish– brick damage.
He answers himself after a pause.
