A late night rendezvous

HAWTHORN, VIC. MAY 2017.

In the dimly lit streets cloaked in the shadow of the evening, I treaded my path home to my dorm room from a late night study session in the college library. The crossing to the other side of the street stood as a silent juncture, and it was at this moment in space and time that the threads of fate wove an unexpected encounter.

A figure emerged from my left, stumbling through the night's haze. A chance meeting, unforeseen and unusual — a woman, blonde, her steps erratic yet purposeful. She locked eyes and walked up to me, a complete stranger.

“Are you headed to a restaurant? Where are you going? Can I come with you?" she asked, a series of questions tumbling from her lips. I didn’t respond as I wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Presently, she had invited me on a journey to navigate the culinary landscape of the city; her attempt to go on an adventure in the night. She wanted to know and had asked me where we could go.

I weighed the odds of recommending her a destination. The neon signs of Indian eateries flickered in the backdrop, the only contenders in this late night culinary quest. With a hint of caution in my voice, I told her that the restaurants around held little merit. In that moment I realised that she was drunk, as her breath carried the telltale scent of alcohol, and the crossing became the stage for a brief intersection of two lives in the stillness of the night.

I remained silent not knowing what to do. "I got kicked out of a hotel," she confessed, a revelation that left me further perplexed.

“I’m sorry—I have to go,” I said, offering a simple apology and sought distance.

However, our paths entwined once more as she pursued me — the urgency in her eyes a silent plea for help. Her gaze darted toward another passing stranger, a mere pedestrian that happened to be in the general area of this random encounter.

"Do you think he can help me?" she questioned, a desperate hope present in her voice.

Surprised by the randomness of her question I asked, "What? Who?" Her response was a simple gesture — a finger pointing towards the unsuspecting passerby behind me.

A feeling of empathy began to seep into my heart. The woman had asked a simple question, revealing a vulnerability beneath the layers of her adventurous facade. I now wanted to help her. "Where do you want to go?" I asked.

“I want to find a crawl space,” she slurred, for perhaps in her mind, she wanted a place where she could rest and feel safe, but couldn’t effectively convey that in her current state. I was confused, unsure of how to make sense of her predicament. Yet, I had a resolve as I simply couldn’t turn away from the desperation I could see in her eyes.

"I don't know of any such places," I admitted, in the midst of conflicting emotions internally. I couldn’t take her to my room either and felt a responsibility not to abandon her to the whims of the city.

“Where are you going?" she asked again.

“Home,” I replied, and gestured vaguely towards the direction of my room.

She now demanded that we go together to my room without delay — a request I repeatedly denied. She then pointed toward a nondescript house in the area, proposing the porch as a makeshift refuge.

In a moment of compassion, I shook my head. “No. That is not okay. They may call the police on you," I cautioned, aware of the potential consequences.

I was now weighed down by choices between empathy and practicality: both choices tethered to a situation I hadn't anticipated. The universe had cast me as an unlikely guardian.

“Where are you from?” I asked, thinking I could drop her off at her doorstep and prioritising her well-being. A fog of forgetfulness shrouded her memory and she couldn't remember. Soon spontaneity took hold of her as she declared a desire to visit my college, which was right across the street.

With a nonchalant gesture, I pointed my umbrella towards the college. Before I began to speak however, she cut me off as she had changed her mind. "I can't really go in there… I'm not allowed," she said. I presently stood still thinking of what I should do.

She implored me to accompany her further by promise of payment. "Will you come with me? Please. I'll pay you. I'll pay you fifty dollars," she pleaded. I declined the offer, instead redirecting the conversation to knowing more about her present situation, in the hopes of assisting her.

I gently asked her again, "Where are you from?"

She was irritated by this question until at last she spoke and the truth unravelled — she was a Bundoora native (a suburb of Melbourne), and was a student from a different college. She was in Hawthorn because she had been attending a party in a hotel nearby with her friends until her abrupt eviction.

Intrigued by her journey, I now wanted to understand what her plans going forward were. She replied by saying she didn't know. In another burst of spontaneity, she invited me to the hotel (from which she had been evicted) for a drink. I couldn't abandon her at this point, so I reluctantly nodded my head at her request.

Her fumbling steps embraced my arm for support as we both walked side by side. The hotel nearby stood as a silent witness to our nocturnal wanderings. It was quite popular with college students for its cheap drinks and Tuesday night revelries. She kept referring to the hotel as "The Peacock Hotel." In reality, there was no Peacock Hotel in the area. We stalled outside the hotel as I asked her to wait.

I immediately began texting a friend of mine, seeking their advice. Their suggestion was to find her friends and drop her off with them.

In the meantime, she began fidgeting, and soon, her invitation for a drink was misplaced as she began searching for a $50 bill in her handbag — in the process, quite comedically pulling out a 50 cent coin instead. In a blend of confusion and hiccups, she pondered the disappearance of her $50 bill, asserting vehemently that she indeed possessed fifty dollars. I asked her why she was looking for money and she replied by saying she wanted to pay me for accompanying her.

I began reassuring her that payment was unnecessary. Suddenly on a whim, she exclaimed that she spotted her friends awaiting her in front of the hotel. I was taken aback by the sheer coincidence, as this was exactly what my friend wanted me to do, and felt skeptical. I questioned the certainty of them being her friends, and she insisted that they were indeed her friends. I was very relieved by this, knowing that she was now safe.

She was delighted. "Promise me you'll meet me again," she urged and smiled. She held out her little finger, and I did the same, both of us sealing our commitment with a pinky promise that turned into a whimsical exchange of a kissing of thumbs. In a moment of impulsive haste, she darted across the street without a second thought, prompting a heartfelt plea for her safety from me.

I stood back and watched her for a while, a concern for her well-being perhaps evident in my gaze. Presently, she stepped into the hotel with her friends, and I, a lone silent figure under the street light, turned around and walked home without looking back.