An Indecisive Moment with Unknown Consequences

            The line of traffic on a hot summer day like this is endless. Even with the windows rolled down there is no relief, the heat consumes the breeze so that it feels like a hair drier breathing its hot breath on you. Sitting at the light my eyes focus in on the bumper sticker peeled and ragged on the car in front of me; “Caution ADHD driver, oh look, a butterfly.” I giggle to myself as it pulls ahead of me and snaps me back to the long awaited permission from the green light to get moving. Errands that I am really too exhausted to complete consume the next hour of my existence. One last task at the convenience store and a lawn chair with a cold glass of lemonade await me.

As I pull into the parking space that same bumper sticker closes in. The driver had backed in his 1969 Pontiac firebird Trans Am into the parking spot in front of me. It was a gorgeous muscle car in its day, and this one seemed to have the original polar white with blue racing stripes paint job. Unfortunately it looked like it hadn’t been washed or waxed since the day it left the production line. The dented hood and roof made the stripes look contorted and curved. Nicks were chipping at the paint and all along the bumper was thick ugly rust. The passenger’s side door was so concaved that I doubted it could even be opened because of the damage from years ago evident in the splattering of rust. The driver’s side door was wide open like someone had bailed in a hurry to flee the scene. The inside of the door was missing the window crank and left an ugly hole.

The original blue vinyl interior was scarred and maimed, streaks of white and lost luster. The driver’s seat was haphazardly covered with a threadbare seat cover that seemed to shift off the seat towards the door. The passenger’s seat was ripped and the padding was yellowed and protruding. I thought that I had better shut the door as any Good Samaritan would do, but I was drawn in. As I leaned in to see the back seat I placed my hand on the head rest, it was hot and sticky with the residue of lost duct tape that had been meant to cover the tear. The smell of melting plastic and body odor was thick. The back seat was covered in McDonald’s wrappers and wrinkled straw papers. I scanned back to the front seat and saw the purple fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror and off of those hung a pair of handcuffs. Unopened mail seemed to have slid across the dashboard during the ride and was tumbling onto the passenger’s seat. I recognized the crumpled piece of red paper on the floorboard as the same flier that had been put under my windshield wiper while I was selecting my ice cream flavor for a double scoop cone. Its purpose was to persuade people that by sitting through a seminar they too could own a beautiful ocean side condo. As I shook my head I saw the cigarette lighter on the floorboard of the passenger’s side.

I don’t know what compelled me but I placed my knee on the driver’s seat and leaned in to restore it to its home on the dash panel. When I picked it up I saw the bag of dried plant and thought; “it figures.” I should have known the owner was a pot head by the trash remnants of satisfying munchies piled in the backseat. When I brought up my hand with the cigarette lighter my knuckles scraped the glove box and it fell open. The glint of the sun on metal made me gasp with the recognition of a Glock 21-.45 caliber pistol. I dropped the cigarette lighter back to the floorboard and quickly shut the glove box. I extracted myself from the car, slammed the door shut and looked around fervently to see if anyone saw me or was coming my way. I turned my back to the car and took in deep breaths while my mind raced trying to figure out what I should do. Was he a cop? Not likely, since he had a bag of weed and the car was trashed. Was he a drug dealer? Possibly. Maybe he was licensed to carry a concealed weapon, and just recreationally used. What did I know? But what if I didn’t report it and that guns future included killing someone? I could have stopped it, could I live with myself, would I even know? Damn, this is why people say curiosity killed the cat!

“Sweet ride, ain’t she?” I was totally startled by the human contact, and I felt like my dilemma was written all over my face. I looked at the tall skinny sack of bones coming towards me with a big toothy grin and an extra-large cherry Slurpee. His eyes were sunken with dark circles that gave the look of a skull instead of a human face. His long greasy hair flopping as he walked. His jeans were ripped at the crotch revealing black striped boxers. Midway down the pant leg his jeans were gaping open leaving a white dangle of fabric partially covering a crusted scab on his right knee. He had on black plastic flip flops that snapped with each step. He stuck out a bony hand that was clutching a jelly donut and gestured towards the firebird behind me. Jelly dripped and hit the pavement and I could see that his army green T-shirt had jelly tear dropped down the front of it. I stammered out a “yeah” and moved as fast as I could to my car door. When I was safe in my metal bunker I watched him open the door and jump in. The engine roared and he sped out of the parking lot so fast smoke rose from the back end and you could smell the burning of the rubber from the tires. I couldn’t even remember why I had stopped here. I resolved the issue that the only option I had was to make a call to the police when I got home but then I realized that I never even saw the license plate!