Brooke: I Was Not Afraid

The man smelled heavily of dirt and marijuana. He beckoned to me as I crossed the threshold of the empty den.
First he called only with his hands, motioning me forward. Then a rough, quiet voice broke the silence. “Hey, come over here.”
“Me?” I breathed.
“Yeah, how do you work this TV?”
He spoke with the slightest hint of a Spanish accent.
“I’m not sure.” I said, peering at the blank screen.
I took small, hesitant steps towards him. He fumbled with the buttons.
“Look, it doesn’t work. Can you help me?”
“I really don’t know how to fix it.”
To prove myself, I pressed a button. Then I pressed another. Nothing happened. “I don’t know… I’m sorry.”
I began to retreat.
“Don’t let me scare you away!” He called.
“Oh no!” I replied, startled. “I just really have no idea how to get that to work.”
Rather than leave altogether, I sat in one of the chairs lining the corridor and pulled out an essay I needed to read for a class later that day.
He left me alone for a few moments, but then came back, pacing in front of the line of payphones on the other side of the wall.
“These phones, they block my number.” He told me.
Then—“I’ve been wandering around Utah country for the past 3 days. Sleeping in the streets. But I don’t ask anybody for help. I figure I’m 32 years old, you know? I should be man enough by now to take care of myself.”
I nodded my head.
“But they kicked me off the bus. For no reason. And I need to call my friend.”
Feeling a little less apprehensive, I offered him my cell phone. He seemed sincerely desperate.
He took it kindly, and made his correspondence short, thanking me profusely afterwards.
At this point, he started to make light conversation. He asked me about my studies.
I told him I was studying English. To which he replied “What’s wrong with your English?” I tried to explain to him that it only meant I studied literature and writing.
I watched him as he frowned, and tried to grasp this concept. “You mean like periods and commas and stuff?” He glanced quizzically at the essay resting in my lap.
“Yeah kind of…” I confirmed.
We continued to talk. I told him about my film classes. “We learn about movies,” I explained. This was exciting to him. He asked me if I had seen the movie Holes, which he had seen for the first time a few days before. I told him I had, and we began an avid discussion of the characters and plot.
Then, rather suddenly, as if something about our conversation had suddenly struck him by surprise he tilted his head and interjected “you’re not afraid of me at all—are you?!”
I, too, was struck by surprise. “No!” I replied adamantly. And in that second, it was true.