the Walk

With purpose and intention each step narrows the chasm between the Wolf and his target. His awareness of the environment surrounding him heightens as the final goal plays into line of sight. He readjusts his earpiece as to confirm the clarity of sound, for he will not miss his cue. He reminds himself that if this were a movie, he would have the perfect background music accentuating the moments leading up to now. The swift and refined movements even seem to create a cinematic atmosphere.

While he uncinches the appropriate pack from its secured position on his sweaty back, he pretends that he has an audience watching him through some silver screen squatting on the fringe of their theatrical seats slurping up the last of their soda expectantly from the bottom of the red paper cup. With one suave motion he drops to a knee, withdraws from his bag a tank-like water bottle filled with just enough H20 to replenish his anticipated thirst, then gallantly lifts his pristine body back to upright. Almost like a machine, he replaces the bottle in the pack and recommences the powerful path he has planned. The people in the theater see it, but no one on the street would have ever noticed, especially the monochromatic street guards, the creatively quick concealment of his hidden weapon. As if nothing extraordinary had occurred, his pace down the dirty street resolved though divided from God by the dusty tunnel of trees and crumbling concrete homes on every side.

So much of the time of the time when I stroll through the streets of Cairo, this former paragraph articulates the atmosphere I perceive. Perhaps it is the guards on every block toting semiautomatic machine guns (with bulletless clips) . Perhaps it is the anemic dogs that follow you everywhere. Perhaps it is the Dekker novel about an assassin that has been consuming my thoughts. Or perhaps it is a desire to become a warrior, a soldier solicited for service in a transcendent army. In part, for me, it is the intention in my walk. In order to efficiently travel from destination to destination, an expatriate must do as little as ignore the honks and shouts and as much as shoo the taxis away with an unrepentant “La, Shokran.” (translation: No, Thank you.) accompanied by a stern face and hand motion or two. To survive you learn to severe the frightened impulse connected to jumping, especially at the sound of an unnecessarily loud car horn. In America, people will customize a car to look trendy; in Cairo, drivers customize their vehicle to honk louder.

I often pop a single earphone into one ear to partially distract me from the incessant noise pollution of the city’s crowing. Also, the invention of the iPod has allowed for every individual to silently choose their own life soundtrack to omnipotently air as they autonomously disassociate with the remaining masks of the a harsh and threatening world. I hate this about myself. I think I'll stop.

I rebukingly thank American cinema for instilling in my head the preconception that if I stroll the streets of a separate city, I suddenly and secretly switch into a soldier suited in civilian socks. Sharply, the contrast thuds. All this to say, I think my persona here would be a great cover for a CIA servant. But instead, the world must learn to suffer the foliage of a more fruitful forage: Messianic Disciple.