Fool's Errand

Bob Gass                                                                                   1225 words

921 S. 103^rd St.

West Allis WI 53214 USA

Bobg03504@gmail.com

A Fool’s Errand

I think about many things when I’m walking. Conflicting opinions and beliefs during these crazy days, uncompromising quarrels dividing the country, the world. And that’s the big stuff. There’s lots of debate, arguments, about diets, too, which are best, nutrition tips that have merit or are stupid, coffee is bad, no it’s good. Salt is bad, no its OK. Spinach is good, but not too much. Alcohol is bad, well, a little is OK. Gluten, carbs, cholesterol, MSG – worrisome prattle! We search for the kernels of truth amid rampant misinformation, my wife Michelle and I.

Or we watch British crime dramas on PBS, or black and white movies on TCM, though I admit to liking the colorized movies common for a while. Reminding me of antique hand-tinted photos. But purists condemn the coloring, sacrilege to colorize the black and white frames the director envisioned.

Michelle and I find ourselves, in our mid-forties, mostly on different paths than the mainstream. Brood over superhero movies again today while walking the half mile to the Dollar Tree to buy toothpaste and candy. These ubiquitous Dollar stores are the reincarnation of the old five and dime stores, where aisles of penny and nickel candies once enticed kids to spend their allowances and paper route earnings. I shouldn’t be eating so much candy, I know, at my age, a worrying pleasure. I’ve tried sugar-free candies, but no-go. But my pants seem tighter recently and I’ve looked with mild alarm at my profile in the bathroom mirror after a shower. I’m brushing my teeth more often after my dentist expressed mild alarm, too, during my last checkup. And my doctor, at my last physical, admonished me angrily that I’m borderline diabetic. Thinking about finding another doctor. For the longest time I deluded myself that I must have a sugar deficiency. OK, I’m a moron.

But superheroes. When these caped and leotarded and superhuman and half-machine crime-fighters started soaring across the sky with frequency, I watched a few, mildly entertaining banter and violence, effects, CGI, but ultimately all the same, rather stupid. My dad grumbles that he read the Marvel and DC comic books these movies are based on when he was a kid in the early 1960’s, found them silly back then. He preferred war comics, Sergeant Rock of Easy Company, Sergeant Fury and the Howling Commandos.

Buy a wonderful variety of candy and a small tube of Crest in the Dollar Tree, a former Walgreens, carry my plastic bag out, there’s commotion at the corner nearest the store. Car accident. A handful of pedestrians gather beside the stop lights. It’s a big intersection, two turning lanes each direction, controlled by arrows to lessen the number of crashes that once were common. Walk over, see a Honda SUV laying on its port side, one tire in the air just revolving to a stop. Pass through a half-dozen ogling people.

Sitting in the street, beside the dusty undercarriage of her SUV, is a woman, perhaps mid-twenties, tears streaking her blush and she’s eating French fries from the little red carton in her trembling hand. A white McDonald’s bag and crushed partially unwrapped cheeseburger is just visible beneath the car. I feel sympathy for the woman, a little contempt. She’s scuffed up, her strikingly pretty face tainted sour, dressed nicely, blouse and slacks, just a bit stout, doesn’t appear injured. She’s disregarding the spectators, two filming with phones.

I advance a few hesitant steps into the street, ignore gawking faces in the cars moving slowly past.

“How you doing?” I softly ask, bend over, hands on my knees.

She looks at me, green eyes wet and cold. “How you think I’m doing?”

“Yeah. Dumb. I mean, are you okay? You hurt?”

“They cut me off,” she says weakly, unconvincingly. “My back hurts. I fell off my car. Wasn’t my fault.”

“Did you climb out the top there?” I nod toward the passenger door up in the air. “You weren’t thrown?”

She looks at me with grief. “Who are you, anyway? The police?”

I lower myself onto my right knee, so I’m not talking down to her. Chuckling, I say, “Oh no, I’m an accountant. Work from home since Covid, about a half-mile away.” About to add that I take a brisk walk every day, decide that’s irrelevant. I hear a siren. “Sounds like police on the way, though.”

She spits out a piece of French fry with repugnancy. I don’t know what to say now. I picture the whole accident clearly, see it like a movie. This poor lady wants to turn right, has a right-turn steady red arrow. She’s hungry, roving inside the McDonalds’ bag, eating fries, attempting to release a cheeseburger from its protective yellow wrapper. Inadequately determines the way is clear, starts moving through a rolling stop. Oncoming traffic turning toward her on a green arrow, two lanes. She swerves to avoid, an instant before horn-honking contact, the top-heavy SUV tipping onto its side.

“What’s your name?” I pointlessly ask. “I’m Tom.”

“Sarah,” she sullenly says. “What, are you hitting on me?” A sullen smile.

Startles me. “No, oh God, no, I’m just trying, I don’t know, to be nice? I’m sorry.”

“’s’okay,” Sarah says. “I believe you.” Her corneas glisten with wetness. “Look at my car.” Her lower lip spasms. “Just got it a month ago. Evelyn’s gonna be so mad.”

“Evelyn?” I ask, nosy.

“My partner. Gonna be so disappointed I went to McDonalds. If I tell her. Had such a sudden craving I can’t tell you. We’re vegans.”

I smile, empathize with Sarah right now. “Well, there’s nothing like a juicy cheeseburger now and then. The key is moderation.”

“Yeah. Try telling Evie that.”

Double sirens are piercing, suddenly stop with a whimper. Glancing behind I see paramedics depart their ambulance, squint at me, hustle to Sarah, asking her questions, kneel to check vitals. Two police officers slowly approach. I hear them talking to each other.

The tall young cop is looking with disdain at his partner. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t eat so much of that crap. Your arteries will be lined with chili dogs.”

The crewcut, heavy cop gulps down the last of his dog, wipes a sliver of chili from his lower lip with an index finger, licks his finger. “Ach, go choke on some broccoli.”

Looking down at me, he says, “You together? Were you in the car?”

Rise to my feet. “No. I was in the store there.” Hold up my plastic sack.

“Were you involved, or witness what happened?”

“No, came out afterward, saw the crowd.” Feel a little foolish.

“Well, then what the hell are you doing? Mucking up my crash scene?”

I chuckle, which the chili dog cop doesn’t seem to like at all. “I asked the young woman if she’s okay. Her name is Sarah. She’s a guilty vegan.”

“Well, I suggest you get the hell out of here. At least back on the curb with these others.” He hollers at the zombies, “Any of you see what happened?”

Tossing a last sympathetic look at Sarah, I say, “Good luck, Sarah. It’ll be all right. Moderation.” She gives a weak wave as the young cop kneels beside her to ask questions.

I start for home, think I’ll go through the park, get in more steps, still a long way from ten thousand. Rummage in my bag for the Skittles. Need a little pick-me-up.

END