Low-hanging Fruit
The figure’s space and shape scream out masculinity. Appearing at the end of the pedestrian tunnel when I was midway through, he’s stomping in my direction. My spine tingles like I’ve rolled in nettles. In the confined bowel of the walkway, his size is intimidating. I‘d been warned about the short-cut under this part of the city. Beatings, theft, abuse. Not the safest suburb. For a vulnerable, elderly woman, I’m low-hanging fruit. I know that, so why am I here? At this moment?
My diminutive, hunched body leans backwards into the tunnel wall. I pause, drawing deep breaths. Damp masonry supports an 80-year-old arthritic spine. I release my grip on the Zimmer frame and stand taller against the wall. Adjusted to the dimness of the passageway, thick lenses dart in both directions. And the stench in here! I’m nauseatingly aware of stale urine. Where should I look? I stare blankly at the opposite wall, barely two metres away, heart-rate elevating. It’s a wall of poorly spelled graffiti alerting passers-by about who sucks what and relevant phone numbers. A sounding-board of anger, toxic masculinity, bigotry and anarchy. But my mind isn’t decoding profanities, it’s sourcing a strategy.
The clack of leather-soled boots reverberates through the space as the figure strides purposefully in my direction. It’s difficult to make out his features in the tunnel, the light source is on his back. A peaked cap is pulled low over his eyes but I can’t discern any distinguishing features. By now he’d be aware of my presence in the tunnel but would his eyes have adjusted? Would he notice my headscarf concealing a bun of white hair, or my stained beige cardigan, oversized harem pants and wellington boots? I keep very few clothes back in my public-housing apartment.
Ten metres away, I see his face. It’s not overtly threatening, more … benign. His eyes are diverted from me. He’s a mountain of a man. Then my arthritic knees give way slowly and I cascade down the brick wall, knocking over my metal frame with its empty shopping bag attached. The sound of my body slumping onto the concrete pathway is overwhelmed by the clatter of the tumbling frame. I roll onto my side emitting short breaths and tiny gasps.
Man Mountain runs to my side and kneels.
“Oh geezus, are you OK lady? Want me to call an ambulance?”
His voice has a gruff edge, but his actions are seemingly caring. I relax a little, attempt to rearrange myself and sit up from the cold concrete.
“No… no need for that,” I wheeze, “but thanks for your concern. I’m OK, I just lose my balance now and then. I’ll be fine.”
“D’ya want me to call someone for you? Ya got a husband.. a friend… a carer?”
“No… no. I live alone. Widowed almost 40 years now. I’m quite independent, but thanks for asking. But would you mind helping me back up, then pick up my walking frame?”
Man Mountain leans across me, wraps muscular arms around my tiny body, lifts me to my feet. He positions me inside the walking frame and bids me good day before offering a warning about walking alone in this area.
“Lot of crime around here, lady. Theft, assault, pickpocketing. You take care won’t ya.”
And the Man Mountain glances at his wristwatch, turns, and click-clacks noisily to the other end of the pedestrian tunnel and out of my life. Well… mostly out of my life. Squirreled away in the bottom of the green Woolworths bag slung over my walker, lies his wallet and credit cards. Yeah… I’m intimately aware of the pickpocketing around here.