So today I was marked.
He had a broad, veiney sponge of a nose, a wide tipped spear pointed downward across his weathered chin and to his ample gut. I'm sure he meant well, standing over the wrecked car while the younger, stronger men pulled a harried yet smiling woman from the ditch. I, not much different than he, though younger, tucked my cell phone back in my faded field jacket and asked if there was anything else they needed. A gaggle of people surrounded the victim, a human wall to keep her warm and safe on the icy road.
He and I stood apart. Our cars, empty, hazard lights blinking, I knew what needed to be done.
"Sir? If we can clear the road, we're holding up traffic and probably will cause another wreck."
He turned to me, his eyes, narrowed, "And who are you then?" He asked, accusatory.
I winced. I wasn't expecting a fight. "I'm just someone who doesn't want to see anyone else get hurt." My hands waved towards the car, its right fender dug into the dirt.
"Well I'm a Sheriff's deputy and you can get clear but I..." The rest was mumbled. I nodded my assent and said, "That's fine, if you want." I turned and got back into my car.
When I reached my car I turned to see him looking back at me, and then look at the wreck before looking back at me. I saw him note me noting his handicapped plates, the lack of FOP stickers. He then walked back to his car and opened the door.
"I don't mean to be a cock," I muttered, keeping my eyes on him as I got behind my wheel and started the car.
He stared at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. Marking me. Remembering me. In his world, I was the brash young kid who didn't want to listen to him, and almost caused a horrible wreck. He got back in his car, and we left the scene of the accident, very slowly to avoid the icy fate of that woman.
He's the Sheriff's Deputy, a bona fide hero. I'm a brash kid who almost got us into another wreck.
Seems to me that's allright.
He and I stood apart. Our cars, empty, hazard lights blinking, I knew what needed to be done.
"Sir? If we can clear the road, we're holding up traffic and probably will cause another wreck."
He turned to me, his eyes, narrowed, "And who are you then?" He asked, accusatory.
I winced. I wasn't expecting a fight. "I'm just someone who doesn't want to see anyone else get hurt." My hands waved towards the car, its right fender dug into the dirt.
"Well I'm a Sheriff's deputy and you can get clear but I..." The rest was mumbled. I nodded my assent and said, "That's fine, if you want." I turned and got back into my car.
When I reached my car I turned to see him looking back at me, and then look at the wreck before looking back at me. I saw him note me noting his handicapped plates, the lack of FOP stickers. He then walked back to his car and opened the door.
"I don't mean to be a cock," I muttered, keeping my eyes on him as I got behind my wheel and started the car.
He stared at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. Marking me. Remembering me. In his world, I was the brash young kid who didn't want to listen to him, and almost caused a horrible wreck. He got back in his car, and we left the scene of the accident, very slowly to avoid the icy fate of that woman.
He's the Sheriff's Deputy, a bona fide hero. I'm a brash kid who almost got us into another wreck.
Seems to me that's allright.