Category Archives: Biographical

A Reverie For Then

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In a nearby cavernous auditorium, perchance in another cosmos, voices rose and fell, each youthfully jockeying for position. The camaraderie of teamwork still lit each of their souls in excitement. Youth is a fuse which can be subdued only with great effort. Its exuberance is a trumpet’s undeniable fanfare.

I could hazily sense the subtle vibrancy of life percolating through the concrete walls as I sat on the right end of a worn wooden piano bench in the chorus room, a place I seldom ventured. My own voice was broken and even in the moments that I might have something to herald, doubt dutifully clamped my lips. Caged birds seldom discover their voices.

The lights were dim about us. I sat in awe, next to a transcendent creature whose humble mastery of those eighty-eight keys hypnotized me. Her long, nimble fingers playfully and effortlessly waltzed across the keyboard. She smiled at me, in part in the simple pleasure of sharing music she had created and in part from the delight she noted written on my face. If imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, I’m unsure how to compare fathomless wonderment.

It’s a simple satisfaction of life to share a moment with another soul, one which transcends personality and place. Everything extraneous falls away, leaving people to face one another. The overlap of engagement is the subtlest of all possible harmonies. If the metronome of the universe finds the perfect synchronization, each person walks lightly and without recognition that their guards have yielded.

She continued to play as I sat, mute, imagining that I could see the notes float from the opened piano into the spectral air. Absent the vocabulary to express it, I realize now that I was living one of my first moments of bittersweet experience.

After a few sustained minutes, the tumult from the nearby hall spilled out and someone entered our shared sanctuary of the chorus room. The spell was broken as her devout hands moved away from their natural home above the ivories. She instinctively knew that the interloper had ruptured whatever interlude we had experienced. The notes which were magically suspended in the air dissolved and fell to the floor.

She and I smiled at one another – and for a breathless moment, I was rendered floorless.

I returned to my bestial life, one whose existence was the antithesis of that shared melodic moment. That the savagery of my separate life had suffered a momentary rest deepened its claw into my soul. I had managed to peer out the smudged window of my life for a moment.

As the years bury their minute-filled corpses in the past, I am able to sporadically recapture those minutes of rapture, listening. Out of time, out of place, she sits unhurriedly beside me, sharing the gift of presence and music. That moment resides forever in an absent place. In other moments of fanciful experience, I can feel its vacancy beckoning me, though I know it will be but a pale shadow of an iridescent memory of youth.

The gift of experience is that we often fail to appreciate the moments as they wash over us. The agony of wisdom is to discern how fleeting the sublime sensation of joy can be.

And so, we look back, away from the monumental gray of our mundane days.

Our lives often lack cadence and tempo except when sleuthed in reverse, in reverie, and in reverence.

Those melodies, though, they remain; eternal, and accompanied by the decrescendo of our bodies.

 

A Culinary Misadventure

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As we were driving out of town, we skipped several eateries along the way, ones which we knew would be great. Absent being sidetracked, we were holding out for a repeat experience in the town of our destination. We had eaten at the tex-mex in question once before and although it had some issues, we were very interested in giving it another try. We had hunger and enthusiastic anticipation to ensure our experience would be great.

And the universe noted our idiotic expectations and drove them headfirst into the rocks.

We stood at the door as various employees jockeyed toward the front register and seating chart. I said, “Yes, two please” at least 4 times. Finally, one of the people decided to seat us. This undoubtedly was part of their strategy to make us work up an appetite or perhaps wisely flee the building. After a long wait, a waiter appeared. He seemed very uncertain. He came back twice to ask about the drinks and appetizers. The salsa was tasteless, even though it felt like it might contain a numbing agent.  While Dawn went to wash her hands, I attempted to salvage the salsa by using a chip to pluck onion and cilantro from my pico de gallo bowls and mix it with the lifeless concoction.  Upon tasting it, she said, “This tastes like tomato sauce from a can.” I laughed. I poured all the juice from pico bowl and managed to get some flavor in the salsa.

I’ll forego most of the usual jokes about bathrooms and Tex/Mex eateries. I’ll say this, though. When I used the restroom and opted for toilet paper to blow my nose instead of the hand-activated sandpaper dispenser at the sink, I laughed when I discovered that all of the toilet paper holders were empty. The odds of all the holders being emptied were so slim that I defaulted to another of my theories: if the bathroom smells like a lakeside bathroom or there’s no toilet paper, it’s generally a bad idea to frequent the eatery unless one of your hobbies includes studying infectious diseases. I usually trust my instincts about these things. I knew we had made a critical error in our eating selection. The men’s bathroom had all the allure of a WWII latrine trench.

A few minutes later, I noted a man hurriedly scampering toward the restroom. Although I didn’t actually hear his reaction, I imagined that a shrill cry of “No!” followed by a tirade of profanity wafting through the air. Pardon my specificity, but I hope he discovered the absence of the necessary bathroom accessory prior to engaging.

Our waiter was inexperienced. I left my readers in the side door of the car, so I was attempting to find a safe selection on the menu. Dawn helped me read the menu as if I were already 80 years old. As I mentioned the number I wanted, the waiter began asking me a series of perplexing questions, some of which convinced me he might have killed the actual waiter and took his order book as a cover story. To add insult to injury he then asked me to read verbatim the combination I had asked for by number. Also, these don’t allow substitutions, so I was confused. After being polite, I told him to bring me whatever the cook thought belonged on #3 and that such a course of action would be fine with me. (He had visibly flinched when I asked about ‘tacos de alambre’ and similar items.) When my alarm bells begin to sound, I always opt for plates containing no meat. It’s a lesson Dawn is slowly learning, too.

My wife foolishly ordered a selection with grilled chicken fajita meat on it. When the plate arrived, she was surprised to discover that they had used what I now call “squirrel chitlins” instead of chicken fajita slices. I’ve come to learn that restaurants that use the chicken pieces which resemble small sections of curly french fries can’t be trusted. Using that type of chicken under the guise of grilled fajita chicken is a dead giveaway that cost has surpassed quality as the main guideline for inventory. In NWA, I stopped getting my favorite dish and then abandoned my favorite restaurant precisely because of this. Dawn initially ate with the enthusiasm that hunger demands but her enthusiasm quickly faded as the texture, flavor and strange aftertaste of her meal overwhelmed her hunger. The sour cream that had been added to her plate was runny and tasted like it had been left out for an hour. I won’t critique the guacamole in fear that the Avocado Mafia will kill me for my honesty.

Dawn found almost nothing savory to eat from her selection. She picked at her plate like a spoiled turkey buzzard might after discovering a whole pizza on the road. The waiter never returned to ask us about chip refills, salsa, or drinks. It might be a good thing, though. Dawn might have had commentary. She knows better than to return food except in emergencies or to ask for something else. He was around us, though. I watched as he moved around. I could tell that he was very concerned about his coworkers needing him to help them or to bus tables, even though there were 3 buspeople on duty. Dawn was showing a little frustration, something that’s unusual for her. I already knew the waiter wasn’t coming back absent a lassoo in my hands. I tried to get Dawn to accompany me to the front register to expedite the process. It took the waiter 4 or 5 times to actually have our ticket. For me, it was hilarious. Dawn wasn’t amused, especially at the part regarding me finding hilarity in the failed dining encounter. She just wanted out of there instead of being forced to look at the inedible carcass of her food selection on the plate in front of her. Even as Dawn attempted to pay at the register, she didn’t know how to answer the cashier who asked, “How was it?” I dared not turn around, lest I pantomimed sticking my index finger down my throat. Adding another insult to injury, the payment system didn’t allow her to customize her tip. Only 3 high-tip options were available. Instead of asking, she chose the lowest with a grimace. Dawn, like me, is normally a great tipper. We both found it appropriately hilarious that the one time we might have tipped badly, the restaurant’s payment system didn’t allow her to do so. We added this observation of our list of signs that a place might not deserve to survive.

As we left, I snapped a selfie of us, as I was riffing jokes about “What could go wrong?” Evidently, the universe had kept the tex-mex eatery in business to provide an answer for us. So, even though we had just survived the culinary equivalent of an equestrian kick in the crotch, we laughed as we walked away. The numbness faded from our tongues within an hour, even though our stomachs saluted us well into the night.

The good news is that Dawn now completely agrees with my rule regarding fajita chicken strips coming to the table disguised as squirrel chitlins.

I’m not calling out the restaurant by name. I want you to accidentally discover it one day. You’ll know if you have. Something primordial will trigger in your lizard brain. Your first instinct will be to call 9-1-1, if you’re still conscious. P.S. Fight or flight. I suggest you run if you remotely suspect you’ve entered the place in question.

 

 

 

 

 

1st of December to Remember

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As I turned the corner earlier this morning, I was momentarily startled, as the entire neighborhood went dark for a couple of seconds. We had an amazing lightning show last night, possibly in early celebration of the upcoming yuletide season. My modern stove light was blinking like a Johnson patrol car’s lights after pulling over someone with an accent. My Elf Mistertoe attempted to slumber on the kitchen counter, his hands clasped over his eyes. I don’t know how he could sleep with that damnable blue light pulsating like a beacon. Elves, as you know, are unfathomable in their habits.

Outside, the skies had cleared, leaving a vivid waning crescent moon to highlight the gnarled branches of neglected trees along the unincorporated side of the county road. A large, twisted trampoline lay half in the road and several neighbors had fence sections on the ground, having surrendered to the onslaught of the direct winds. On the other hand, that side of the road tended to look like the ‘after’ picture of an Allstate insurance commercial. The road was covered in leaves and detritus from last night’s storm. The air was saturated with the smell of a damp forest.

As I passed the Latino church near the Friendship Road cemetery, my eye caught a huge Christmas light display further to the east. I couldn’t figure out which house it could be. Nearing the entrance of the cemetery, it dawned on me that there was no house; the solar farm contained several utility crane trucks, each illuminated with a pale yellow sheen by security lights. From a distance, the pale lights looked like a thousand Christmas lights splattered across multiple gables of some unseen house.

On my way back, I saw the furtive fox again as it darted away near the perimeter fence adjacent to the road. It did not linger to watch me as it sometimes does, undoubtedly with errands to run. And in my ears, Il Divo sang, “le canzoni sono lucciole che cantano nel buio.” (…songs are like fireflies that sing in the darkness.)

On my right, at the house on the small hill overlooking the edge of the road, a man sat on the edge of his porch. Normally, this house is invisible to passers-by until the fall comes and strips the curtain of foliage away. I waved and he waved back. I hoped that his day would be as beautiful as the one I’d already started.

On the road, in the dark, it was all mine, and mine alone.

Crazy But Untrue

 

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*This story is literally true. I’m not exactly proud of it, but as the cliché goes, you had to be there.

Today, a woman unexpectedly lashed out at me. “Are you stupid? Can’t you read?” She half-shouted at me. She pointed at a sign written in a font so small that only Donald Trump’s hands could have scribbled it. For a second, I thought she might actually strike me – or worse, hand me some MLM brochures.

Instead of engaging, I pointed at my ear and made a signal that I couldn’t hear her and then faked a couple of words using sign language.

“Oh!” she said. Her face reddened.

“Sorry that you thought I was deaf? But not that you completely lost your temper over something inconsequential? Up the dosage, ma’am.” And I smiled, showing her my teeth.

It rained f-bombs, despite the forecast indicating it would be dry today.

“I can’t hear you, ma’am.”
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It was a proud moment for me, and a painful one for Justin’s shoes, given how he stomped off in disgusted anger.

“Not everyone should have a gun,” Justin said. “Some people can’t be trusted.”

“Hey Justin, didn’t you get a DWI a couple of years ago?” I replied. “Should you own a car?”
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In July, I attended a Native American festival.

As I watched a group of celebrants practice the dying art of smoke signals, I couldn’t help but wonder how they might make a semicolon.

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Due to the blustery wind, I opted to walk on the treadmill earlier this morning. Not wishing to sacrifice the scenic advantages of being outside, I micro-dosed with LSD. An hour later – and I can’t get the skis out of the bathtub.

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“I don’t think the waiter likes me,” I told my wife as ate our meal.

“Why do you say that?” she asked me, turning to look toward me.

“The fact that he used my head to open the bottle of wine was the first clue,” I replied.
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I’m not sure that the Purchasing Supervisor appreciated that I bought the new Amazon book, “Yes Or No Guide: For Those Instances In Which You Ask Leigh Davis For A Simple Answer.” 80 pages long. She needs a burn cream now, I think.

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The Opposite of L’esprit de l’escalier

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*This story is literally true. I’m not exactly proud of it, but as the cliché goes, you had to be there.

Today, a woman unexpectedly lashed out at me. “Are you stupid? Can’t you read?” She half-shouted at me. She pointed at a sign written in a font so small that only Donald Trump’s hands could have scribbled it. For a second, I thought she might actually strike me – or worse, hand me some MLM brochures.

Instead of engaging, I pointed at my ear and made a signal that I couldn’t hear her and then faked a couple of words using sign language.

“Oh!” she said. Her face reddened.

“Sorry that you thought I was deaf? But not that you completely lost your temper over something inconsequential? Up the dosage, ma’am.” And I smiled, showing her my teeth.

It rained f-bombs, despite the forecast indicating it would be dry today.

“I can’t hear you, ma’am.”

The Day Begins

As I hurled several items into my outside trash collector, I looked across the street.

A little boy who is seldom seen outside was standing at the perimeter of his driveway, holding an action figure of some sort. I was very surprised to see him.

As I looked, he waved with gusto. “Hi! What’s your name?”

In a thundering voice, I replied, “X!” (For newcomers, I replied with the 24th letter of the alphabet only because that’s my name. It would have confused him had I replied, “Slartibartfast,” or “Susanna.”)

Before I could say anything else, the boy seemed to become confused and turned away, walking back into the shadowy garage.

I knew he’d turn to see if I was still looking his direction.

I waved as enthusiastically as I could, to let him know I wasn’t as crazy as I sounded.

He waved with joy as if attempting to wave down a passing boat after 6 months on an isolated island in the Pacific.

And so, the day begins.

We Are All Stories For Other People

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As I was once again in the Little Rock area, I had no choice except to get up early and creep outside. Moronic it may be, but as I’ve aged, I’ve been delighted to discover that walking deserted streets is among my favorite ways to enjoy life. I walked across the river bridge this morning, trying not to scare anyone. I was dressed in black pants and jacket in hopes of being mistaken for a suspicious character as I walked the streets. I left my ID in the car in hopes of increasing my chance for a foot race in the event of a ‘suspicious person’ call and ensuing police foot chase. Note: coffee is redundant if you’ve been tased below the waist. (As is the need to use the restroom, depending on the voltage of the device used.)

Regardless of its purported problems, this town is spectacular in the pre-morning hours. If you’re asking if it feels unsafe to be out alone in the dark, the answer is still no. Potato chips are a more realistic threat to me than what some shadowy danger might plan for me.

Walking across the bridge, I could see the top of the capitol building. I passed a moment wondering if anyone was perhaps already inside, possibly leafing through piles of large bills, quietly but maniacally laughing to themselves.

Leaving the hotel property, I edged into the dark sidewalk near the baseball park. A man walking two harnessed and incredibly large labs tried to dodge me at the last second. The dogs, seeking new people to adore them, jerked him back into my path and began to dance and whimper as I petted their heads. “Sorry,” the man said. “Don’t be. The day just improved for all of us,” I told him.

There were a few joggers this morning. Two of them were very athletic women who were trailed by a bodyguard. All of them looked like they could throw me into traffic if I looked at them wrong. I briefly considered pretending to chase them to see if they’d run faster. Since I didn’t have my health insurance card with me, I thought better of the idea. I don’t know who the two ladies were but they reeked of ‘famous.’ They were wearing perfume that undoubtedly was made using the scent of money.

As invariably happens when I walk the Little Rock metro area in the early morning, I had a couple of moments of divinity, the brief seconds of recognition that I’ll always remember this morning in indistinct yet fond imagery. The breeze above the river was a caress and the sight of the river below me reminded me of how lucky I’ve been in this life. I’m too observant to think that the scythe isn’t already arcing to meet me at some point in my life. It’s probably disguised as an anvil or extra large pepperoni pizza.

Coming back through the motel parking lot, I startled a couple as they gossiped and smoked cigarettes. Whoever Ellen is, the couple would like her to know that she’s a vile excuse for a human being. I wish I knew which Ellen they were discussing. I’ll bet she’d had a vigorous reply to their parking-lot gossip.

As I write this, I’ll note that despite having my “Do Not Disturb” on the door, a housekeeper knocked and waited 1/10 of a second before entering with her master key. The look on her face was priceless as I said, “Hold on, I’m just starting the security cameras now.” It’s worth noting that I was sitting at the desk with two laptops and a pile of jumbled electronics, so my joke was probably taken as serious commentary. “I’m SO sorry” she yelled as she turned and fled. It’s too bad I hadn’t yet started my 30 minutes of naked jumping jacks. I went to the hallway and asked one of the housekeepers in Spanish if the lady who just exited my room was the supervisor. She said ‘yes,’ it was. If she tries any shenanigans tomorrow, let’s just say that her reaction will be befitting of a Halloween scream as I surprise her.

I really did walk past the governor this morning. I instinctively checked to see if my wallet was still in my back pocket as I passed by. Just joking, of course; small bills are a nuisance in a world of wealth.

The picture is one from the riverside walk. Those are fallen leaves rather than crumbled currency. I took a couple of the panorama of the bridge, the jutting dome of the capitol building, and even a selfie as a confused driver passed me as I held the camera aloft. I ran through the leaves, scattering them into the air and breeze. The river breeze blew across me, bathing me in the delicious fall smell. As I walked away, I could see someone sitting on a bench in the near distance, smoking. I hope he was wondering if he had just witnessed a middle-aged white man begin his inevitable nervous breakdown.

We are all stories for other people.

No Worse For The Wear (Or Non-Wear)

This is a true story, one which makes me proud. After you read the story, you’ll be proud to know me too.

This evening, as the darker clouds rolled in to meet the deepening sunset on this beautiful day, I stopped at one of the local liquor stores. (Which, for the uninitiated, is a place one might purchase alcoholic beverages.) My wife remained in the car, probably anticipating more antics from me. Plausible deniability is a virtue after so many years of marriage.

As the magical automatic double glass doors slipped open upon my approach, I entered with a smile. Three employees were near the rear left side of the store. All three proclaimed an enthusiastic version of “Hey, how are you?” to greet me.

Per my usual custom of saying something stupid, I used my cliché “Terrible!” as my reply.

The youngest of the three visible employees, a fresh-faced and enthusiastic man, laughed and said, “You don’t look any worse for the wear, though.”

Smiling even deeper and preparing to raise my voice, I half-shouted back: “You should see me NAKED!”

The younger employee stood with a stupefied expression on his face. The wizened veteran at his side burst out laughing as I continued walking.
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Read With Caution – But This Story Doesn’t End In the Manner You Imagine

 

I’m writing this story in one sitting, one draft, and without polish.

I don’t know who they were or where they were from, the couple that forced my day into an uncomfortable U-turn. I’m still a little nauseated, an hour later. When I came home, I immediately took a shower and did my best to avoid throwing up. The perfume or cologne of the couple is still on me, even after. My “What Would You Do” moment did call me to action, though. It also exposed my hardened view of so many things. The older man of the couple demonstrated an incredible amount of patience in the moments we shared. I am hesitant to tell any part of the story as even the most gently expressed truth often wounds people in ways which are unintended.

My wife and I capriciously decided to find a Mexican food place to eat today on the 4th. We drove by several and found all to be closed, one of which we missed by 30 minutes. On a whim, I turned at the last moment to check Las Palmas. My wife and I smiled at each other when we saw the mismatched cars aligned in the parking lot.

While we were eating, a woman and her children were behind us. The older boy regaled his table with stories involving vomit, bathroom misadventure, and the sort of thing one would expect from such a tender idiotic mind. Dawn was especially taken with the stories, given that the back of her head was a foot away from the mouth sharing the stories as fajita-scented smoked wafted in the air.

The restaurant had some unusual characters in it. The oddest was an unlikely couple seated in front of me and to the right, back against the bathroom area. The man seemed to behave almost like a caregiver. The woman, a painfully thin middle-aged woman, sat with her face mostly turned away from me. She was wearing a summer dress and several things seemed not quite right about her. In front of her was an almost empty margarita glass, the frosted and salt-rimmed kind one typically finds in Tex-Mex places. Toward the end of my meal, the antics seemed to grow more pronounced, much like a play in which the actors start to feel the audience respond to their comedy. I watched as the woman tried several times to get the straw of her drink to connect with her mouth. I was wrestling with the question of whether the woman had a mental condition. The margarita seemed incongruous to such a hopeful conclusion, however.

As Dawn sat across from me telling me stories, I found myself increasingly looking past her at the strange couple by the bathroom. I watched in horror as the woman tried to stand, much like a confused flamingo might do if its frail legs were tied to bowling balls. The man with her grabbed her as she started to pitch forward into the basket of chips of the Latino man seated nearby. He had her purse in one hand and somehow managed to grab her like a striking cobra.

“She’s going to fall!” I fiercely whispered to Dawn. “Don’t look,” I added, as she, of course, turned her head to look. (It might as well be a law in these situations, much like the involuntary cringe in one’s neck as someone shouts, “Watch out!”) I didn’t know it, but I was finished eating for the day.

After six or seven additional dramatic steps, the woman simply collapsed onto the hard tile floor, her male companion helpless to stop her. It sounded like a half-empty bag of potatoes as she hit the floor. My heart stopped for a second.

I locked eyes with the Latino man who had been seated near them. He looked down and away. Because I didn’t want John Quiñones and his crew from “What Would You Do” to jump out of the pantry and stick a camera in my face, I jumped up and ran over to help lift the woman. I didn’t know that my call to action was going to be so graphic or consuming.

“She’s got a bad leg and is going to have surgery on it,” the man told me. My heart hurt for him a little bit at that moment. I could feel his pain. I knew then that the woman was drunk and probably had a little pharmacological help mixed in.

Being careful of my back, I helped pick her up. I wanted to sit her in a chair for a moment and to give her time to get her bearings. The man with her forged ahead, trying to walk her, so I continued to lift and assist. Everyone inside was now looking at us. The restaurant had come to standstill.

We somehow managed to get her near the door despite the constricted walkway between tables. We were basically carrying her by this point. I wanted to sit her on the door side bench while the man went for the car. Instead, he said he’d never get her back up if she sat down there. Despite the voice in my head threatening me to continue, the man and I kept walking and made it outside. It’s hard to change course once you’re swept up in what seems to be impossible momentum.

I assumed his vehicle was the one two spaces from the door, given the woman’s condition, one which I assumed was normal for her. “Is this one yours?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied. “You’re not going to believe this, but THAT one is mine.” He pointed to the literal edge of the parking lot. The vehicle was some type of conversion Jeep, and the bottom of the door was more than two feet from the ground. I should have run. If I could go back in time, I’d go back and slap myself for not doing so.

The woman continued her best to succumb to gravity and fall to the pavement as we fought against it, moving slowly across the parking lot. She mumbled incoherently as the man continued to ask her to use her legs, to hold herself up, to move forward. I assumed everyone in the restaurant was pressed against the tinted windows, watching us do the impossible. I could hear the opening bell of Rocky in my head. My back sent warning shots to my brain. I couldn’t put the woman down, though, because the pavement was incredibly hot. The man seemed relentlessly insistent on marching to his vehicle, even if he had to drag all of us there by sheer willpower.

As we neared the Jeep, I got one arm from her and opened the door. It was going to be impossible to get her in there given the access available past the door. I knew then that the woman was most certainly not in such dire straits before her meal. Whatever medical condition was present before her arrival was at most responsible for no more than 10% of our current predicament.

We tried everything to get the woman up. She stopped responding to basic motor commands. At one point, the man ripped the belt from his cargo shorts in an attempt to fashion a lifting harness for her hand. We lifted her up and down no fewer than ten times. It was blistering hot in the parking lot. I knew it was burning the woman with each attempt, if not breaking her legs. I asked about an ambulance and should have insisted on calling one.

Honestly, though, I cannot express the pain I felt for the man as he struggled with a total stranger like me. He struggled to maintain his composure and sanity as the situation became more and more outrageous. I knew how sharply he was feeling the concern for the woman, while simultaneously being embarrassed and upset. He told me I could leave and that he appreciated the help. It made me wince even more.

On our last attempt, the woman’s sundress went completely up to the waist, leaving her exposed. I could not imagine a worse predicament for either the man or the woman. The woman, though, wouldn’t know it had happened unless someone tells her later.

After a long interval, Dawn came outside and watched as we continued to struggle. I wanted to both run and burst into tears. The man agreed that he might have to call an ambulance, even though I knew as he said it that he wouldn’t, for a variety of reasons.

The woman was curled into an unnatural ball in the passenger seat and floorboard, her limbs in seven distinct directions. The man was pushing at the small of her back, trying to keep her inside. He couldn’t do anything about her dress being around her waist.

“I’m not going to call an ambulance if you don’t want one, sir,” I told him, putting my hand on his back. He was in great shape for being in his late 50s or early 60s; It probably explains why he was still making the attempt.

We gave one more try to push the woman far enough inside. It looked impossible, but she was ‘inside’ in the most loosely defined way possible. The man told me he’d pile her in there like a spilled bag of oranges if he had to. Without exaggeration, I think about 15 minutes passed between the first time I picked the woman up from the floor and leaving.

I said a few things to get him to reconsider. I don’t remember exactly what I said because I was upset, whether I showed it much or not. As Dawn and I left, we drove around the lot so that I could see that the man hadn’t dropped her. Thankfully, he was standing by the Jeep, looking at the ground, a look of despair on his face. I was trying to picture what it might look like when he got her back to her house or his house or wherever they would end up.

I turned right and went the long way around, trying to convince myself to go ahead and call the police or an ambulance. If a police officer had been patrolling, I would have. None was to be seen. It was a relief in a way. Those two people have unimaginable problems in their lives. I don’t know who they are – or even the man’s name.

Dawn told me as we drove away that the woman walked into the restaurant without assistance. It confirmed my suspicion that alcohol had mixed with something else.

I can’t tie this story up into a neat little bow yet. I’ll let you know how mad I become at myself for helping. I’m glad I helped when someone needed it. I feel a deep sadness for the man who was put into that situation. I know nothing about who he is or his relationship to the woman. The not knowing makes it easier for me to avoid anger at the woman. My youthful exposure to so much alcoholism and addiction sometimes brings up a vengeful eye in me and it is something I struggle with when I’m around the consequences of someone who desperately needs help but won’t accept it.

I forgot to mention one key detail: it was an unfortunate choice of days for the woman to fail to wear underwear.