A Healthy Dose of Reality

By Ivan Morgan / June 9, 2023
I was a 20-year-old university student walking down Water Street in the wee hours with my friend. At the time in school I was reading all the philosophers. I was caught up in what they were writing (as any 20-year-old should).

My friend, a Portuguese engineering student, was listening to me blather on and on about the nature of reality as we strode along. We were both drunk and had heads full of silly (as any 20-year-old might).

“Its incredible how the debate on reality – of realities – takes you further away from reality, makes you question what you thought was reality, makes you search for what is reality . . . ” And on and on I ranted.

What I didn’t realize, in my state, was as we were walking my friend – a wild child at the best of times – was quickly running out of patience with me.

I waffled on and on, until my friend suddenly stopped short. He caught me by surprise, and I stopped a few steps ahead, and, more importantly to him, stopped talking.

“Reality! You interested in reality?” he yelled in my face. “Try this!”

With that he spun around and heaved the beer bottle he was carrying across the street at two police officers, who were walking the beat (as they did in those days). The bottle made that unmistakable sound empty beer bottles make as they sail through the air, then smashed against the brick wall right above their heads. Almost as in slow motion (or so I remember it 43 years later) foamy sudsy glass showered all over them.

“How’s that for reality?” my friend laughed hysterically. “Deal with that!”

And he was gone – off running flat out.

Memory plays tricks, especially after four decades, but I remember a pause. My friend was gone. The two cops just stood there for a minute. Then the younger one – the bigger of the two – came tearing across the street towards me.

There was no thinking on my part, no delving into the finer points of the great works of philosophy. I turned and ran.

Up a back alley I flew, the footsteps of that very large angry cop close behind me. Out on to Duckworth Street and down the sidewalk, young fellow in hot pursuit. I ducked into another back alley, jumping over garbage cans and stumbling over loose bottles which were scattered across the alley. I could hear the cop skidding on the broken glass right behind me.

At the end of the alley a locked chain link gate. Crap. I scrambled up the gate, over the barbed wire and jumped down into garbage bags on the other side. In my panic I glanced behind me to see the police officer scaling the gate. Double crap. I tore down the alley back to Water Street to see flashing lights coming towards me.

Back up another alley, this one blocked by mounds of garbage and a dumpster (this in a time before the city prettified the back alleys of downtown and gave them names). I vaulted over the dumpster, looking back to see the cop jumping into a squad car at the base of the alley. The car tore off down Water Street, lights flashing, siren blaring. I ran across Duckworth and leapt up on the Anglican Cathedral’s iron fencing and rolled over the top into the tall glass.

I didn’t move.

The cop car roared on down Duckworth past me. Fearing a police dog, I got up and ran. Ran ‘til I came to residences and then ran into some back yards. I dove into a pile of bushes beside a shed and lay on the ground stock still, trying to stifle my heavy breathing. After a while a cat came by. A little later a rat. I didn’t move a muscle. Occasionally squad cars would drift slowly down the street, searchlights scouring the area. I scarcely breathed.

After several hours birds began to sing. The sun came up. I lay motionless in those bushes wondering if the cops were still looking for me. It had been hours. Then I heard from an open window above my head folks getting breakfast, dishes clattering and people talking. Not wanting to compound my situation, I took off my jacket (leaving it in the bushes) and crawled back out to the street. Keeping to the back streets, and keenly aware of any traffic, I scurried home, hiding behind whatever was available when cars came down the road, trying (and probably failing) to not look suspicious.

Finally at my front door I put the key in the lock and was inside. Safe! My roommate looked up from the couch where he was sleeping.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Keeping it real,” I laughed. “Keeping it real.”

Ivan Morgan can be reached at ivan.morgan@gmail.com