He scoops up a tube of Crest toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and a green bottle of Pert shampoo, puts all the items into the man's plastic grocery bag, and hands the bag back to the wheelchair guy, who is struggling between gratitude and wounded pride, a feeling of helplessness. "Not a problem at all," the man in beige says again.
Far easier than lying in the weeds and waiting for the wounded animal in the pack to come limping by, unsuspecting. Nothing like the gentle facade of manners, of charity, to reel in your prey. "I s'pose I could use a hand," says the wheelchair guy. His unshaven face is weathered and dull except for a small, shiny scar in the shape of a crescent moon near his right eye. Decent upper-body build, to be expected of someone who's lost the use of his legs. He is wearing a camouflage hat and an army fatigue jacket. His face is red and shiny with sweat from the effort of trying to retrieve the toiletries rolling around on the pavement. The wheelchair guy straightens up with some difficulty. The man in beige calls out, "How 'bout I give you a hand with that, mister?" It always has been and always will be so. Any student of history, of science, knows the opposite is true. Only moralists or lemmings think that weakness requires compassion and mercy. He also works the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair, but in vain-the motorized chair fails to respond to the command. He bends over at the waist, reaches down to the pavement, and struggles to pick up several items that have spilled out of a plastic grocery bag. There is one other vehicle in the lot, a Dodge Caravan the color of rust that's parked nose in about eight spaces away.Ī man in a wheelchair is in the middle of the lot. The convenience store, displaying ads for cigarettes, beer, two-for-a-dollar hot dogs, Powerball tickets, is the only thing open. The laundromat at the end is dark the catering service is shuttered, a metal grate across the window. The setting summer sun casts a dim glow over the strip mall, nearly empty. He steps out of the car, straightens his jacket, and lightly brushes his hand against the bulge at his side, the concealed handgun.
The man in the beige jacket pulls his SUV into the strip-mall parking lot and kills the engine. I do what I do for one, and only one, reason. I am not uneducated, I am not poor, and I am not the product of an abusive upbringing.
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