So he takes a stroll down the road. Its raining, yet, he cannot feel it. His hair must be blocking the wet feeling from reaching his skin, which seems to have a constant dampness from the moisture in the air. He walks uphill looking sideways across the street where an old man in an old beat up truck, probably named Schmidt, just got pulled over by a flashy policeman in all black and sunglasses, but he takes off the sunglasses, for obvious reasons pelting him from the cloudy, dark sky above, and he puts his hand on the crease where the old man just rolled down his window. He leaves his hand there while he questions the old man about some law he apparently took part in breaking. The old man's eyes stare into the policeman's. Crossing the street he slows down as he watches the old man and the badge converse and all he can do is stare at the policeman's hand which still resides on the truck's door.
The scene shifts and gets taken over by my brain. Steam rises from the rain as it hits the newly placed blacktop on the sidewalk. He crosses the street wary of any vehicles that might not have caught his eye do not drive past him and do not drive through him--there are none, thank the lord. The old man looks nervously at the policeman's eyes and shifts to his hand still resting on the door. The old man thinks if he had not rolled down the window then the policeman would not have been able to put his hand there, but he had to roll down the window so he could talk to the policeman. The old man is kind and courteous and probably does not deserve whatever ticket he might receive for an infraction that possibly could have been avoided if there were any more automobiles on the road and not just his and the police car. The old man thinks about rolling up the window just a tad so the policeman's hand might get a little touch of the window and might disrupt the thought process in his brain, all in good humor though, a mistake, an accident, a slip of the finger--the policeman might or might not think so, but he is irrelevant.
He continues to cross the street as the scene unfolds, but he leaves. He has crossed the street. He does not look back.
So what happens next? A passing thought.
The scene shifts and gets taken over by my brain. Steam rises from the rain as it hits the newly placed blacktop on the sidewalk. He crosses the street wary of any vehicles that might not have caught his eye do not drive past him and do not drive through him--there are none, thank the lord. The old man looks nervously at the policeman's eyes and shifts to his hand still resting on the door. The old man thinks if he had not rolled down the window then the policeman would not have been able to put his hand there, but he had to roll down the window so he could talk to the policeman. The old man is kind and courteous and probably does not deserve whatever ticket he might receive for an infraction that possibly could have been avoided if there were any more automobiles on the road and not just his and the police car. The old man thinks about rolling up the window just a tad so the policeman's hand might get a little touch of the window and might disrupt the thought process in his brain, all in good humor though, a mistake, an accident, a slip of the finger--the policeman might or might not think so, but he is irrelevant.
He continues to cross the street as the scene unfolds, but he leaves. He has crossed the street. He does not look back.
So what happens next? A passing thought.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home