Fear at Dusk

A summer night begins to muscle its way into the neighborhood.

This is usually the time for people to party or just visit. Anything to prolong the day. But this dusk accompanies fear that is already well-entrenched here, courtesy of a recent rash of break-ins and robberies. And everyone on the Elm Place cul-de-sac disappears into their homes.

Everyone except Joe.

He stands like a defiant sentinel in front of his open gas grill on the driveway.

Bratwursts sizzle. Joe turns the three links over with a tong. He unfolds a lawn chair—and stops.

Joe feels someone is watching him, but he is afraid to look up. Or move. He feels goosebumps and tingling on the back of his neck. His heart races. A foul odor finds his nostrils, overcoming the meaty smell from the grill. One thought seizes his brain: I should have gone inside.

“Please, mister.”

The shaky voice from the sidewalk reaches Joe’s ears, but he still cannot move.

“Please,” the voice comes again. “Can I have just a half of one of your hot dogs?”

Joe squeezes his eyes shut and opens them. He slowly turns to the sidewalk.

An unkempt man with straggly hair and a shopping cart is looking at Joe. His faded shirt and jeans are dirty and ripped.

Joe straightens up and takes a deep breath. He unfolds another lawn chair and places it next to his own. Somehow, he summons the words, “Won’t you join me?”

The man from the sidewalk smiles. And sits on the chair.

Joe puts two paper plates on a grill extension. He places one brat on one plate, another on the other plate, and cuts the last sausage link in two and distributes the halves to both plates.

Joe no longer feels the goosebumps. His heartbeat is back to normal.

And the foul odor, meaty aroma, and pungent scent of fear are overcome by the sweet smell of empathy.