A Bizarre Journey ep 10: The Long Walk

I left the building with nothing but my phone, my wallet, and the clothes on my back.

No dramatic suitcase. No final words. I just walked out into the humid Saigon night like a man quietly exiting his own life. Behind me, the laughter and guitar from the common area slowly faded. Ahead of me was only the glow of streetlights and the distant roar of motorbikes that never seemed to sleep.

I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay.

~~~•••~~~

The first place my feet carried me to was a familiar crab paste noodle stall on a quiet corner, the kind that only opens after midnight for people who have nowhere else to go.

I sat down at the worn plastic table under the yellowing light bulb. The auntie recognized me instantly.

“Oh, Loc! Long time no see. Still breathing or did your ceiling fan finally finish you off?”

She cackled at her own joke while ladling the broth. I forced a weak smile. Even strangers remembered me as “the guy with the chaotic fan.” Great.

I stared into the bowl when it arrived — the crab paste looked sad, the tomatoes floating like they had given up on life too. Fitting.

While eating, I listened to the auntie complain loudly to another customer about her son.

“That boy is twenty-eight already! Still lying in bed until noon, playing games, eating my food, and complaining the world is too hard! I told him, ‘If you’re gonna be useless, at least be usefully useless like that neighbor Loc of yours!’”

She laughed again, loud and genuine.

I froze mid-slurp.

Usefully useless.

The words hit harder than they should have. I looked down at the bowl, watching grease swirl on the surface like my own thoughts.

So even strangers see me as the benchmark for harmless failure. The gold standard of mediocrity. The guy people mention when they want to say “at least you’re not as bad as him.”

I laughed quietly to myself — a dark, hollow sound that made the auntie glance over curiously.

New Loc is probably out there right now helping old ladies cross the street while reciting poetry and fixing their souls. Meanwhile, I’m here measuring my worth against a bowl of noodle soup and a mother’s disappointed sigh about her own son.

I took another spoonful, the broth suddenly tasting bitter.

How long have I been like this? Comfortably pathetic. Proudly broken. Using laziness as both weapon and shield. Letting Quan build me a fake throne of kindness because I was too scared to sit on it myself.

The worst part wasn’t that New Loc existed.

The worst part was realizing how comfortable I had become being the “before” picture. The cautionary tale. The guy who gets a pitying head pat and a “he’s trying his best” medal.

I pushed the half-empty bowl away.

Even my appetite had given up on me tonight.

The auntie noticed and grinned. “Not hungry? Or are you practicing for another blackout?”

I paid, stood up, and gave her a tired smile.

“Just thinking, auntie… maybe some people are born to be the warning label on the package. Not the product everyone wants.”

She laughed, thinking I was joking.

I wasn’t.

~~~•••~~~

The second stop on my aimless journey was a small, forgotten park I used to escape to during high school whenever I wanted to avoid the world.

It looked exactly the same — rusty swing set creaking in the night breeze, broken benches covered in faded graffiti, and a single dim streetlamp flickering like it was also tired of existing. I sat down on our old bench, the one with the wobbly leg, and stared at the empty playground.

A few minutes later, a small boy — no older than ten — shuffled into the park. His school uniform was dirty, his backpack dragging behind him. He sat under the big banyan tree, hugged his knees, and started crying quietly.

I watched him.

Go on, Loc. Say something. Be the hero for once. Be the guy New Loc would be in a heartbeat.

I stayed seated.

The boy’s shoulders shook as he tried to muffle his sobs. Probably bullied again. Probably felt small and worthless. I knew that feeling too well. I had lived it. I was still living it.

And yet I didn’t move.

Instead, I laughed — a low, ugly, self-mocking sound that echoed in the empty park.

“Look at you,” I muttered to myself. “You’re sitting here watching a kid cry because you’re too busy having an existential crisis. New Loc would’ve already walked over, smiled that perfect smile, said the right words, and turned the kid’s night around. He’d probably inspire the boy to become president someday.

Meanwhile, I’m here auditioning for the role of ‘pathetic background character who watches bad things happen.’”

I rubbed my face harshly.

This is who I am. The guy who sees someone in pain and thinks, “Same, kid. Welcome to the club.” The guy who runs away from crying girls, from responsibilities, from his own little brother’s expectations. Even now, when no one’s watching, I still choose to do nothing.

The boy eventually stopped crying. He wiped his face with his sleeve, stood up, and walked away alone into the darkness — just like I used to do.

I didn’t follow him.

I stayed on the bench, feeling the full weight of my own uselessness pressing down on me like the humid night air.

How many times have I done this? How many people have I let down simply by choosing not to try? Quan spent weeks trying to drag me into the light, and I resented him for it. Tram gave me a chance to be real, and I immediately proved I’m still the same coward who ran away after that Valentine’s disaster.

I leaned back, staring up at the broken streetlight.

“Maybe New Loc isn’t the villain. Maybe he’s just what happens when the universe gets tired of half-assed people like me and decides to print a better copy. One that doesn’t flinch. One that doesn’t hide behind sarcasm and ceiling fans. One that actually deserves the space he takes up.”

A bitter smile crept onto my face.

“And the funniest part? I’m not even mad at him. I’m mad at the version of me that’s been comfortable being mediocre for twenty-six years. The version that’s so scared of failing that he’d rather not try at all.”

I sat there for a long time, listening to the creak of the rusty swings.

The park felt like a mirror tonight.

And for the first time, I couldn’t look away.

~~~•••~~~

Eventually, my feet carried me to the one place I had been avoiding for years.

My old high school.

It was well past midnight. The iron gate was locked tight, but the dim security lights inside still cast long shadows across the empty courtyard. I stood there gripping the cold bars, pressing my forehead against the metal like a prisoner looking into his own past.

Everything looked smaller than I remembered. The classroom building, the flagpole, the spot where I used to sit during breaks pretending to read so no one would talk to me. It was all still there.

Unchanged. Just like me.

A bitter laugh escaped my throat.

“Look at this shit,” I whispered to the silent schoolyard. “Ten years later and I’m still standing outside the gate like a coward who’s too scared to go in.”

I could almost see the ghosts of that Valentine’s Day.

The classroom on the second floor. The moment the letter was read aloud. The entire class staring. Tram’s face turning red, then pale. My friends high-fiving each other like they had won some grand prize. And me… standing there frozen, heart pounding, before turning around and bolting like a scared animal.

“I didn’t even stay to explain,” I muttered. “I didn’t comfort her when she was crying at her desk. I just ran. Because facing her disappointment was scarier than letting her hate me.”

I closed my eyes.

New Loc wouldn’t have run. He would’ve stood there, taken responsibility, apologized properly, and turned that disaster into a touching story people would remember fondly. He would’ve walked up to Tram, looked her in the eyes, and said something real instead of disappearing like a fucking ghost.

I laughed again — sharp, ugly, self-loathing.

“The great Poetry Cat Loc. Legendary runaway. Master of avoidance. Even now, when a better version of me shows up and starts taking over my life, what do I do? I run again. Classic.”

I slid down against the gate, sitting on the dirty pavement.

Quan was right. I really am pathetic. Not because I’m lazy. Not because I’m awkward. But because I’ve spent my entire life choosing the easiest path — even when that path led me straight into becoming irrelevant.

I let my brother build me a fake reputation because I was too scared to build my own. I let Tram believe I was changing because it felt good to be liked for once. And the moment a real version of me appeared, I crumbled.

The wind blew through the empty schoolyard, making the old flagpole creak.

“I got it.” I said quietly to no one. “I don’t even hate New Loc. I hate that he makes sense. He’s not fake. He’s not trying too hard. He’s just… me, if I had stopped being a coward somewhere along the way.”

I stared at the dark classroom windows where everything went wrong ten years ago.

“Maybe that’s why everyone prefers him. Because deep down, they can feel it. The difference between someone pretending to be better… and someone who actually is.”

A long silence followed.

Then, quietly, almost painfully, I admitted the truth to myself:

“I’ve been running for ten years. From Tram. From responsibility. From Quan’s expectations. From myself. And tonight… I’m still running.”

I stayed there for a long time, forehead against the cold gate, letting the weight of all my failures settle on my shoulders like an old, familiar coat.

The school didn’t reply.

It didn’t need to.

It had already said everything.

Hours passed.

I ended up at a dingy 24-hour public restroom near the bus station — the kind that smelled like regret, ammonia, and broken dreams. The fluorescent light flickered like it was on life support. I locked myself in the filthiest stall, sat down, and finally let everything out. Literally and figuratively.

As I was mid-business, breathing through my mouth, I heard the stall door next to me creak open. A homeless man in ragged clothes shuffled in. He wasn’t using the toilet though. He just sat on the floor outside my stall like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A small stray cat with unusually sharp eyes followed him in, jumped onto the sink counter, and stared directly at me through the gap under the stall door.

The man spoke first, voice raspy but calm.

“Rough night, kid?”

I let out a tired, bitter chuckle, still sitting there with my pants around my ankles.

“You could say that. I’m currently taking a shit while my life falls apart. Literally and metaphorically. Perfect timing.”

The man laughed — a low, genuine sound that echoed off the dirty tiles.

“Best place to think, honestly. No one bothers you. No pretending. Just you, your ass, and the truth.”

The cat meowed approvingly, as if agreeing.

I stared at the filthy floor, voice hollow.

“There’s another me out there. Same face. Same name. But better. Kinder. More capable. Everyone likes him. My brother worships him. The girl I like… she looks at him like he’s the real deal. And I’m just… the defective copy.”

The homeless man was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, tone surprisingly gentle despite the disgusting surroundings.

“Most people spend their whole lives trying to become someone else. They polish themselves until they shine like plastic. But you… you’ve been running from yourself so long that the universe got tired and made a backup copy. A polished one.”

He paused as the cat jumped down and started playing with a piece of dirty toilet paper.

“Here’s the thing, kid. That ‘perfect’ version? He can never be you. He can only be the idea of you. The version without the scars, without the shame, without the ugly parts you’re so afraid to show. But those ugly parts… they’re yours. The running. The laziness. The fear. That’s all real. That’s what makes you YOU.”

I stayed silent, staring at the graffiti-covered wall.

The man continued, voice echoing slightly in the stall:

“You can keep running. Or you can go back and stand in front of that better version… and finally be the real, messy, fucked-up Loc. No scripts. No pretending. Just you — shitty as you are.”

The stray cat suddenly slipped under my stall door, looked straight into my eyes with an almost unnerving intelligence, and meowed once — loud and deliberate — as if saying “Get your shit together. Literally.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. A real, ugly, exhausted laugh that bounced off the dirty walls.

“Here I am,” I muttered, “receiving life-changing advice while taking a dump next to a homeless philosopher and his judgmental cat. This city really is something else.”

The man chuckled.

“Best conversations happen in the toilet. No masks. Everyone’s equal when their pants are down.”

I sat there for a long moment, thinking.

Then, quietly, I said:

“…I think I’m done running.”

The man hummed approvingly.

“Good. Now wipe your ass and go face your demons, kid. The real ones. Not the polished copy.”

~~~•••~~~

The sky was beginning to lighten when I finally stood in front of my apartment building again.

The lights in my room were still on. Quan was probably still awake, waiting or maybe hating me. Somewhere inside, New Loc was likely sleeping peacefully, having won without even trying.

I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms.

I was tired of running.

I was tired of being the inferior copy.

If there were now two Locs in this world… then maybe only one of us deserved to stay.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

This time, I wasn’t running away.

I was walking in.