Sentinel At Rest

Lying amongst the flat weeds that press up through the sidewalk seams. Amidst the streaks of broken glass.

Close to the location immortalized through a photograph, captured long before, taken from a car, which exists in a phone, which was inspired by this exchange:

One said- “What is he doing?”

The other said- “I don’t know what he’s doing.”

(The answer: Walking.)

“What the hell is he doing?”

“I don’t know. He’s carrying something.”

(Groceries.)

The image, taken with hope that the community is no longer threatened by someone walking with groceries, exists, and documents the spot.

Perhaps the photo would be seen by an expert, was the thought. Someone expert in ‘He was walking… I don’t know why… carrying a bag… Crime Scene Investigation’ will crack the case and someone will be a hero.

“Now he’s staring at us.”

“Don’t hit the curb.”

“I won’t hit the curb. He’s still staring at us.”

This is the place, on the stretch of road where litter pick-up is officially conducted by the ‘Fairly Sanguine Club’, but is usually policed by some poor Someone Of The Month who did something wrong. And, where there are those crater-less meteor-site streaks of glass on the sidewalk. Because: A charge of DUI sucks. And an open container is not only probable cause, but a charge in itself. A lawyer says: “Well, at least they didn’t get you on open container.” So, the world forces them to litter. Some people think like this.

And someone- given the task to rid the car of little bottles- enjoys the satisfying crash the bottles make upon the sidewalk.

A mark upon the world. As the months and years pass, along with many brain cells, the legal motivation fades into the background for those ‘riding shotgun’, and it is just the satisfying crash.

In a period of geological time, the glass will have turned to sand again.

And this is where the weeds do what weeds do. Push up from the sidewalk. Making their own bid for attention, in a way. The attention of the sun.

Where, (And I’m getting to my point soon, I appreciate your patience,) months ago, on a dark and stormy night, no one cared, seated there in two cars on the hill.

One car, stalled due to the lack of gas. Because: They had stopped filling the tank. Because: They read ‘somewhere’ that petroleum renews itself.

And, in the other car, we have Part Time Assistant Shipper and Mortal Kombat Enthusiast Blake Kerfuffle. Who enjoys vacations on the coast and kicking things in his spare time.

Who was a little more discriminating about what he read, (on his phone) as long as it confirmed that he was wonderful. Who was using it to talk to someone he knew who was saying that he wasn’t so wonderful ‘back then’, and looked up and saw the stalled-out car in the road just in time.

Who slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel toward the curb and never knew what made the “Tang!” noise.

No one involved cared. And Blake drives up on the sidewalk and passes on the inside. An exciting turn of events here on the Dark And Stormy Speedway. And he ignored the scrapey sound beneath his car, because it had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t on his phone, or up on the screen at home. It was just part of that other, bothersome, world outside.

He coasted forward, working his way around the car in the road, and turned back into the road, off the curb, ‘kawump’ ‘kawump’ and a moment passed where those involved considered whether they should be livid toward the other what with what they had just done, and decided against it, and Mister Kerfuffle beat hell down the road, having done little wrong. But, he ‘beat hell’ because it was more likely that he could have been. He just couldn’t determine whether that was the case right then, and decided to play it safe.

In the other car, a beautiful ’05 Camry, someone (in the driver’s seat, I assume, but I can’t be sure) put the car into neutral, pulled the hand brake, and they all (3) coasted down the hill, just to get out of the vicinity. Because no one in the car knew what the other was up to. And the car was registered in a state so far away and long ago, it had forgotten its own motto. Oh, and the insurance, from a company known only from its logo, that of a shrugging vulture, had lapsed back when that which was referred to as the ‘new normal’ had become known as the ‘old new normal’.

The car coasted to a stop at the base of the hill, and the three scattered and started knocking on doors in search of someone to listen to their story and cough up even a liter of gasoline.

And there it is. There it rests. Vigilant in its own way. The subject of all of this. Its post snapped at its rusty base, with a bit of hopeful ivy twining around it in a spot. Lying, as it has been since May, half on the sidewalk, and half in the grass and weeds on the other side. And the sign on the top of the post is facing upward. What are the odds? (fifty-fifty.) From that attitude, the sign tells the sky:

“Warning. Neighborhood Crime Watch Area.”

Let’s all be careful out there.