Page 17 of In a Word, Yes
Hot shame creeps up my neck. But why should it? This couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me, right? With my minor infraction the other day, the nearly calamitous—but also, as it turned out, perfectly harmless—jaywalking incident for which I have not yet been in any way flogged?
I’m being ridiculous. How would the officer know who I was, let alone where I work? It probably isn’t even him. It’s probably some trick of the mind—a phantom rising from the tomb of mysubconscious. Sure, that’s it. A specter rising from the sludge of shame left behind by a lifetime’s worth of minor misdeeds left unconfessed. Although ... I risk a peek from behind the sign.
Tan legs. Built like the Brawny paper towel dude.Fiddlesticks.
Sam’s relaxed demeanor speaks of casual community chitchat. We’re in the news business, after all. Chances are, the officer stopped by to provide Sam with an update about some real crime, like the recent BB-gun peppering of several city councillors’ mailboxes.
Even small-town politics can turn testy. Which is one reason Sam offers a facetious slant on a few police calls every week in a column titled “Sheriff’s Calls.” To help us all keep our precious humor intact.
“Leeeave,” I whisper, willing the men to disband. Can’t stay hidden behind this sign forever.
A hissing sound underscores my predicament. Of course. Of course the sprinkler heads would choose this moment to join the party. Also, I have an audience. Priscilla Fletcher, matriarch of this, the longest established realty office in Charity Falls, watches me wide-eyed through the front window. Forcing a smile, I yank a random weed, roots and all, and hold it up—as if to sayta-da!—then make a leaping return to the sidewalk. But not before getting soaked from the knees down.
This is stupid! I’m no hardened criminal. If indeed I’ve earned a citation, it’s time to come clean. Face the music. Pay the fiddler. And any other applicable idiom.
Sam offers a welcoming nod as I approach the weathered steps holding my chin aloft. Tracking Sam’s gaze, the officer pivots toward me. And with that small, slight twist of his shoulder, I’m forced to abandon any hopes I entertained that this was not the same cop.
Warm-brown locks peek out from his bike helmet. For sure, I’m looking into the eyes of the officer of my almost-collision.Hazel. His eyes, that is. Which is just an aside, of course, having absolutely no bearing on anything.
Sam nods a greeting. “Mornin’, Montgomery.”
His companion produces a relaxed smile within an overall expression that, if I’m not mistaken, harbors absolutely zero recognition. Relief washes over me. Then melts into mortification. Because after taking one long gander at me, the deputy chuckles.
To my horror, Sam joins him.
What is happening? My cheeks sizzle, because obviously they’re laughing at me, rather than with me. Here’s how I know:I’m not laughing.
Am I really so pathetic, in partially wet chinos and soggy ballet flats, holding a puny little houseplant and a—oh, yeah—a weed, roots and all?
Maybe?
I feel tiny.
“Good one,” the deputy says, pointing somewhere roughly in the middle of my person. “I like it.”
Oh.Oh, I get it now. This is about my crisp new canvas bag, a gift from Mom. The one that reads EVERY TIME YOU MAKE A TYPO, THE ERRORISTS WIN.
Okay, so, to be clear, I am not now, nor was I ever, in danger of being issued a ticket. Nor am I the butt of anyone’s joke so far today. Awesome. Swell. I’ll just smile and slither away, thank you very much.
Except that now the officer narrows his eyes. “Have we met before? You look ... familiar.”
Keep moving, keep moving.“Oh ... ha! I get that a lot,” I say nonsensically over my shoulder with as much lightheartedness as I can muster while opening the door—straight into my forehead. Ouch.
My workstation in the front lobby never ever looked like such safe harbor.
What exactly does this say about me?
What, for example, would Bethany Hamilton say, I wonder while rubbing the now-tender spot above my right eye,about the fact that I so often operate as if the world is a deep, dark ocean—and I’m shark bait?
Six
chary(adj.): hesitant and vigilant about dangers and risks
I’m still trying to shake this stupid squeamishness when Dot flutters by on her usual hazelnut latte high en route to the supply cabinet. “G’morning, sunshine! How’d you do?”
“How did I...?” I stow the canvas tote responsible for this morning’s awkwardness in a desk drawer, taking longer than it needs to take—long enough to rearrange my face into something that passes for cheerful. “Oh, that.” Did I even play Wordle today? Breakfast seems an eternity ago.Wake up and smell the newsprint, Lucy.“What was the word again?”
Have I mentioned I’m not a morning person?
