S. Jackson, Ordeal in The Hague

A walk in the dark
by Spencer Jackson

Thousands of miles from home, I watched the party through senses blurred by sleep deprivation and exhaustion. Beside me, a pale person of indeterminate gender and wearing far too much eyeliner expounded upon his or her views of the inferiority of normal people. It was at that moment I decided the evening was a total loss. And although I didn't know it at the time, the evening was about to become monumentally worse.

Perhaps I should pause a moment and describe the setting. While I nodded, pretending to listen to the passionate monologue, I stood in the basement of a conference center in Den Hague, a Dutch political and diplomatic center. That week the city, as it does every year, played host to the The Hague International Model United Nations (THIMUN) Conference. Two thousand young people attended, including a delegation of schoolmates from Balboa Academy and me. The conference had just ended, and the majority of the participants were celebrating. However, I was not celebrating. THIMUN can be summed up in the word “exhausting.” I wanted, no, I craved nothing more than to return to the house where I was staying, go straight to sleep, and in the morning catch the plane that would take me home, back to Panama.

A few hours before, the family I was staying with had offered to pick me up from the party, if I decided to leave early. They were going to be nearby anyway, they said, and it would be no trouble. That way I would be able to avoid the long trip to their house. Otherwise, I'd be forced to walk to a tram, take it to the city center, walk to the train, ride it for an hour, and walk perhaps another quarter mile to the house. Thus, I was grateful for their offer.

The family had been kind enough to lend me a cell phone. I'd only have to call them, and find out where to meet. I took the phone out of my pocket, and dialed. Strange, I thought, there doesn't seem to be any signal. Across the room, I could see other people talking on similar phones. Maybe the phone crashed or something, I wondered to myself. I turned the phone off, waited a moment, turned it on again, read the screen, and swore badly.

Password:___

Okay, stay calm. It's probably something simple. Like, dunno, 12345. Try that.

Invalid password.

Locking.

Ah. I left, and began walking to the tram.

The night was cold. In fact, it was very cold. I had spent the last six years of my life in tropical Central America, leaving me totally unprepared for temperatures below freezing. The night hung dark, heavy and oppressive, smothering streetlights and swallowing the sound of my footsteps. It was the kind of dark that made early man huddle around fires for protection. It was dark with teeth. And trudging through it, me: alone, bundled in a too-thin jacket, limping from the injuries my dress shoes had inflicted, and bitterly regarding my useless brick of a cellphone. I was, to say the least, not happy.

As I walked, a horde of my fellow party goers passed me, talking and laughing. They appeared to be having a fine time. My thoughts toward them, I must confess, were less than charitable. But soon, I had cause to smile when I saw that the merry crowd was bound for the Number 10 tram station. Ha, I thought, I'll go one block over, and take the 9. It'll be quiet, and I can get off closer to the train station. Tonight's finally looking up.

I stood in the tram stop. I found it odd that no one else from that crowd was taking this line. Time passed. Every few minutes, I would lean dangerously into the street, looking for a tram. Each time, I'd see nothing. Half an hour passed. Still nothing. Finally, I gave in.

“Excuse me, sir? Is there a train here?” I asked a passing gentleman.

“No.” he responded curtly “It stops at 10:00.”

Of course, I thought, while I walked to the other station.

When I finally stepped into the tram, it was like entering a hothouse. I could feel heat creeping into my frozen bones. The tram was clean, and brightly lit. It was a small oasis in otherwise grim and inhospitable night. I settled into a nearby seat and basked in this refuge.

All too quickly, a bell rang, announcing my stop. I pulled myself out of my chair, stepped out the door, and gasped as the frigid air slashed into my lungs like shards of broken glass. Stamping my feet, I began to trudge through the darkness towards the train station.

Yet, I was smiling. This is looking up. Nothing else can possibly go wrong. The worst has already happened.

Then it began to snow.

The flakes drifted down, cold, crystalline, and beautiful. They danced in complex patterns dictated by the soft breeze. More snow began to fall, faster and faster. Suddenly, there was quite a lot of it. The snowfall stopped being cold and beautiful. It was just cold. As I ran through the rapidly approaching blizzard, I began to wonder how much snow would be required to bury someone alive.

I arrived at the train station. It was now almost two hours after I had decided to leave early. It's over. I'm here. I'm done. I checked the clock. It was exactly 11:58. I checked the departure board. The only train bound for the sleepy town where my family resided was at 12:00. Again, I swore.

I raced to the ticket machines. I feverishly punched through pricing options. I scrambled to find the proper coinage the machine demanded as tribute. I received my ticket. I had won.

I arrived at the platform just in time to wave farewell to my train.

I slipped into a daze. What can I possibly do? I give up. I give in. There is nothing I can do. As I surrendered to my fate, I felt the tension leave me, tension that had been present ever since my cell phone had locked me out. And as my stress slipped away, my gaze drifted to infinity. I sighed.

Suddenly my focus sharpened. Something, I thought. I am missing something. It's important.

Finally, the magnitude of what my gaze had alighted on hit me. It was a pay phone.

With that, I had found my salvation.

Spencer Jackson is a junior at Balboa Academy

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