I will stop – I will try to stop – assuming the worst of people.
It’s a hot, steamy June night. I am idling at a light with other rush hour commuters stuck at this Gordion Knot of a multi-lane intersection. No signs of a pandemic remain in downtown as throngs of passengers and pedestrians compete for space on the sunbaked asphalt. The driver of the Maserati to my left waves at me again. He inches closer and slightly ahead. Where do you want me to go, dipshit? It’s a red light, I mumble, acting as if I don’t see him. I am annoyed by his self-importance but too distracted to flip him off. An old man in a wheelchair holds my gaze. He is struggling to roll his one-legged frame and loaded grocery bag up the long sidewalk between disinterested souls. He loses his battle with gravity again and again after each arm thrust.
A horn yanks me from my reverie, and Mr. Maserati inches a bit further. He demands to be let over. I relent, but only after I flip him off with both hands.
I look back to the sidewalk in time to see the wheelchair lurching forward and the grocery bag spilling. I feel sick to my stomach. The old man holds one wheel steady while he rescues wayward ears of corn and places them in his lap. I imagine his humiliation; unable to transport himself or command empathy. I want to go home and forget about this cruel scene, but I am stuck behind Captain Fancy Sports Car. I flip him off again even though he cannot see me; he is waving at other people, asking to cut in line.
Sisyphus has all his corn now and is once again journeying uphill. He reaches a crack in the sidewalk and struggles to overcome its pitch. He is stuck.
The light turns green, but I am stuck. The Maserati is parked, stretched across 3 lanes, its hazard lights blinking. Horns blare all around, and I join the chorus with one long, straight-arm press. I want to go home!
I fumble in my bag for my phone. It’s time to tell my kids I will be tardy. While I wait for a voice on the other end I search for the old man.
“I’m on my way,” I say absentmindedly as I see a man in a suit pushing Sisyphus and his corn up the sidewalk, leaning down to talk to him as he goes. At the top of hill, the man in the suit gives the old man money from his wallet. They shake hands. The hero in a suit runs down the sidewalk and into the sea of parked cars before me. He stops at the Maserati, waves at me, and climbs in. When the light turns green, I make it through and take off for the highway. The Maserati revs and races ahead, breaking the speed limit and cutting several people off before disappearing into the HOV lane. |THIS.
[By Natalie Brandt of ThePromptMag.com]
Natalie is a lawyer and mom trapped in Texas. Wildly outspoken about the separation of church and state, she can quickly kill a dinner party but always brings good wine.
