The Trouble with Heroism

   Jake’s breath steamed out into the frigid December air, curling and spinning before dissipating. He walked quickly down George Street, head down, his hands buried in his pockets. Every so often a muttered curse escaped from between his clenched teeth, and his already miserable face twisted into a brief snarl. He was heading back to Rockoff from Scott Hall, where he had just been mystified by yet another final. As he called down disease and misfortune upon his professors, the department heads, and Rutgers University in general, he contemplated how he could make a living with half an English degree and no marketable skills.

   The possibilities of life as a third-rate stand-up comedian or a proofreader at some backwoods newspaper in Oklahoma helped him ignore what little activity there was on the streets that night, but the sound of a deep voice shouting down a side-street made him look up. A tiny older lady was struggling with someone over a purse. She didn’t look like she lived around here; her clothes were much too fancy. Her assailant was much bigger than her, but not that much bigger than Jake, and had the strap of the bag wrapped around one of his arms, while his other hand was half-inside the bag already. The man had his back to Jake, and was dressed in a baggy grey hoodie and a beat-up Duke Blue Devils cap.

   Jake wondered for the rest of the life what made him do what he did next. Maybe it was because he was bullied as a kid, or because the lady reminded him of his girlfriend’s grandmother, or maybe because he was just a generally good guy. For whatever reason, he yelled “Hey!” and sprinted off to the rescue. The man ripped the purse from the old lady’s grasp and ran past her, bumping into her and knocking her to the ground.

   Jake knelt down next to her when he reached her. She was oddly calm for someone who was just assaulted. She wore a mink stole over a very elaborate light green dress with a high, stiff collar and tacky gold buttons. Her spike heels were a matching green, and her grey hair was done up in tight curls. When she looked up at Jake, she seemed surprised that he was there.

   “Are you alright, ma’am?” The lady blinked, and silently nodded. She must have been in shock. “You stay here; I’ll be right back.” With that, he took off after the man, who had darted inside the nearby parking garage.

   Jake ducked under the yellow-and-black striped arm and followed the mugger into the severe, grey structure. Screams of pain echoed down the concrete stairwell as he chased the fleeing figure up the stairs. The sounds were crazed and shrill. Great, he thought as he leaped up the steps, panting from exertion, this guy is on some freaky drug trip. He caught a glimpse of a boot and the ragged leg of a pair of sweatpants as the man ran through a doorway and into the rows of cars.

   Emerging from the stairwell, Jake paused for a moment after losing track of the man. His screams bounced around the parking garage, coming from all directions at once. Then there was a flash of movement, and it galvanized him into action. He darted through and around cars, the hollow shrieks giving him an eerie feeling that he tried hard to ignore.

   Suddenly… silence. It came so quickly and abruptly that Jake’s momentum left him along with his determination. The incoherent screeching had been disturbing to say the least, but this new silence hit him like a bucket of ice water. There was a feeling of void to his surroundings now, an all-consuming feeling of being completely and utterly alone… and yet…

   There was something else. That irrational feeling one gets when alone, quiet, and completely vulnerable. The prickling on the back of your neck, the feeling of the axe about to fall, the phantom sensation of something plunging between your shoulder blades… Utter, fervent, primal fear.

   Jake quickly checked the reflections in the car windows, making sure no one was behind him. He didn’t want to spin around and check, didn’t want to give anyone- if there was anyone, which there might not be- a reason to act. He slowly moved forward, senses intent, the focus darting around, first from where he thought he heard the mugger last, to behind him, to every niche and hiding space someone could leap from. This was a bad idea, he thought. This guy could have a knife… Oh God, or a gun! I should have called the cops and stayed with the old lady. What the hell was I thinking! Rushing off like some kind of super-hero… Oh God, I don’t want to die over some lady’s purse.

   He forced himself to act calm, move slowly, even though every nerve screamed for him to run, to scream, to destroy everything that could hide someone, to do something, anything¸ to eradicate this indefinable danger. No… no… Air rushed into his lungs in great gasps as he took a moment of stillness to calm himself. These are irrational fears, he told himself. You are in a brightly lit, public space. You are fine. Nothing will happen to you.

   There was something on the ground up ahead. Jake curved around so that he could see what it was while being far away from it… just in case. He saw the purse, but no mugger. The bag rested close to the edge of the level, only a few inches from the cables that were pitiful excuses for safety precautions.

Jackass must have run right out into thin-air, he thought with relief as he approached the bag and picked it up. It was a big, misshapen thing, made of some sort of rough, reptile skin and with a sharp looking clasp that was embellished by two big, ugly, red-orange jewels on either side. The strap was long and thick, very ropy and with an awkward knot at the top, as if it had broken long ago and was constantly being retied. The whole thing was trimmed with tassels and fringe and it looked ridiculous.

   Relieved that he didn’t have to face off against a purse-snatching maniac, Jake clasped the bag tightly in his hand and turned to go, preferably someplace brightly-lit and full of people. The clasp dug painfully into his palm. He winced and shifted his grip on it. A few steps later he stumbled over the long, snaky strap. Frustrated and afraid, he grabbed at the thing and tried to get it under control. Somehow it had gotten tangled insanely tight around his ankle. He hurriedly tried to loosen it and again felt a sharp pain in his hand. The bag had fallen open and the inside of the lip was jagged and sharp. Jake dropped the purse and struggled with the strap. Although the bag was wide open and being dragged all over the place, nothing was falling out. That was strange. Did the old lady not have anything at all?

Wouldn’t that be ironic, he thought as he reached for it. And then he froze. The bag had slid across the cement floor, slowly, making a scratching noise. He hadn’t touched, hadn’t pulled it by the strap. It moved again, and Jake could see that the strap was slowly disappearing into the bag.

  Jake grabbed at the knot keeping the strap together and tried to pry it loose. He couldn’t; he could see- he could feel the strands tightening, retying themselves. He stood up and tried to shake it loose and fell down almost immediately as the bag engulfed his foot and he began to scream. It felt like there were a thousand razor sharp teeth tearing away his flesh, demolishing his bones to pieces, and turning his body into puree. The straps of the bag elongated to pin his arms against his body, and they contracted so hard that his ribs cracked and his eyes bulged.

  Jake’s screams bounced around the parking garage, coming from all directions at once, back at Jake. His own hollow shrieks covered up the sound of his bones breaking as he was engulfed. For some reason, Jake was conscious of the whole process, even after his heart and lungs were ground into hamburger. He could feel the bag working its way up his neck, and finally, he died as the bag closed on his head. For a few moments, the bag shook and shuddered, its sides bulging and compressing sporadically. Then its clasp opened and it let out a resounding belch accompanied by a spout of flame.

  Silence fell. It was eventually broken by a slow, rhythmic clicking. The purse lay on the ground, now still and motionless. The tapping echoed off the concrete walls. It stopped as the little old lady reached the spot where the purse lay. She slowly bent down to pick it up, no sign of age in her posture or movements. She lifted the bag up, and held it over her head, which she tilted back, mouth open. The purse shuddered, and the scales popped and opened. From the slits trickled thick, dark red liquid. The blood trailed down the channels between the scales, and poured into the upturned mouth of the little old lady. For a solid minute it flowed out of the purse and into her mouth before the purse had given all it had received and its scales closed again. Then the little old lady put the purse back over her shoulder, wiped a crimson drop from the corner of her mouth, and walked away, a satisfied smile on her lips. The even tapping of her footsteps receded into silence.

-D.M.D.M. 6-1-2005