Shaman

I am walking home, the Shaman is looking directly at me, and I instinctively know it is my time.

We call him "the Shaman" simply because he is willing to provide medical services without payment, however his methods seem unconventional. Some of his treatments, without any invasive techniques, appear miraculous, and so many families cherish his aid. I have yet to see what he performs first hand, but I hear that it is often peculiar and simple. Sometimes a touch is all it takes, and a child is healed. He perplexes even the doctors.

I do my best to avoid him, especially because of his smell. He stinks as though unbathed every time he's near me. I don't know why others aren't bothered by the stench, but they're usually happy to greet him. Of course, he hardly says a word to anyone and mostly mutters to himself. "You'd think the old man was mute until he speaks to someone," a neighbor once told me. I have yet to hear any word from the Shaman. The only times he converses with anyone is in private, and he only ever speaks to someone once. I've seen what happens when a person engages in his small talk. They're always wide-eyed, and afterwards he never opens his mouth to them again.

Right now he stands at the corner of my house, beside the "Stop" sign. He is unwavering, and I begin to sweat. I want to turn away, but I'm nearly home.

"Advice" is what he gives, they tell me. A talking to, even if it's a single word. I don't know what a long, gray haired man who seems to be drunk sometimes could possibly give, yet those who talk with him never view him suspiciously again. He gives me the creeps, I tell them. I don't ever want to meet him face-to-face.

I can see the lights on my front porch now, and the evening grows darker. I see no one else around except the old Shaman. I want to turn to walk another way, but I feel I can't. A strange force keeps my feet steady, and leads me ahead without thought. It feels wrong. I look at the Shaman, and he is giving a gentle smile. I try to make a fist and shake myself, hoping this would be enough to release this strange hold on my body, but it does nothing. My rusty bones ache from the effort, and suddenly the image of my house and the Shaman is blurred...

A glass bottle breaks somewhere. I look around for the bottle, but I see nothing in the dark. My vision goes awry, and I am no longer on the sidewalk to my house. I am near a curb in an urban city far from home. I remember where I am—when I am. It is a memory from thirty years ago. Here, I am in my twenties, walking alone in the evening in an empty neighborhood. I hear a glass break as I turn the corner of a building, and I see a scuffle some yards away. A man is relentlessly beating on a man in the middle of the street. Both seem to be about the same age as each other, some years older than me. The man on the ground tries to cover his face from the strikes, but it isn't enough. As his hands fall, the attacker lands five more hits before he stops to look around. I realize that I am standing in clear view and so I hide in front of a parked van, causing a thud as I press my back to the headlights.

The attacker doesn't notice me, though I am very near them, and decides to stop and stand to get to the car, where he rummages through the beaten man's possessions. The victim, however, seems to hear me, and now looks my way. Through his bloodied face, I make eye contact with him. His expression is that of one pleading for help. It is as if he sees a sliver of hope only several paces away. But I don't move a muscle. I don't even begin to imagine how I can help the man, and so I remain silent and watch.

The man on the street closes his eyes, and his chest begins to rise and fall in quick succession. He is crying. The thief soon gets out of the car and looks down at his victim. The beaten man begins to try to crawl away, a last desperate attempt for salvation, but he doesn't move far before the culprit pulls out a gun. There is a whimper, and then a gunshot. The gunman hurries away, and I remain in the cover of the front of the van, staring at the dead man on the street.