Intruder

I go running most mornings. Not very far, but often. I go running and then afterwards, I stop at the grocery store where I work. I get a donut, a cup of coffee and sit down at one of the tables near the front registers.

I talk to my  co-workers about sports or customers or various store gossip. In return, they give me a bad time about my routine. “You go running and then you have coffee and donuts? That’s ridiculous!”

“Hey, I gotta be careful”, I tell them.” If I don’t eat donuts after I go running, I might lose weight.”

“But why do you come in here when you’re not working? I don’t understand,” someone invariably will ask.

“You know when someone’s suffered a traumatic experience and they’re being hypnotized?” I say. “And the psychiatrist says, ‘Remember this can’t hurt you, you’re safe’, it’s like that, “I tell them. “ I come in here and I don’t have to work and no manager can tell me what to do. It’s like having one of those dreams where you can fly.”

And a  pleasant time is had by all—or by me, anyway.

So it’s a  quiet Saturday morning, seven-thirty, eight o’clock. I ‘m walking back from the center of town towards the grocery store. I hear a whirring behind me. It sounds like a baby stroller. I’m not walking very fast because I ran further than usual and I’m tired.

The whirring gets closer, louder. I’m still walking slow. I’m starting to wonder about this baby stroller and the mom who’s pushing it so fast. I suddenly hear a deep, gravelly male voice say, “You ever get the feeling you’re in the way?” I turn and there is a burly, old biker guy in an electric wheelchair right behind me.  Long hair and beard streaked with grey, tattoos.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Let me get out of the way for you.” I move to the side to let him pass. “That’s okay”, he says amiably. We begin  a moving conversation, he’s cruising along at a good clip in his wheelchair, me walking a lot quicker than I would like just to keep up with him.

He’s tells me the story of the accident that put him in the wheelchair, a drunk-driving mishap in his buddy’s car.  “And now he’s always crying to me about how he lost part of his foot. I told him,’ Hey, at least you can still walk.’ Fucking pussy.”

The man continues with a rambling account of his morning, how he’s visiting town with his wife to see a car show or something. The next thing I know he’s telling me about his son.

“…He’ s gotten into this home invasion thing. I mean, he’s really into it.”

I nod, as if getting into home invasion is like being an American Idol fan or watching pro wrestling, an embarrassing passion that people should know better than to talk about.

He continues, “And he tells me, Dad, it’s not the money, it’ s just the adrenaline, you know, the adrenaline, not knowing if the people inside are armed or what they’ll do…”

“I’m turning here,” I say brightly as we’ve reached the shopping center where I’m getting breakfast. I hear him grunt, offended that I cut him off in mid-confession. His wheelchair comes to a halt behind me. I can tell he’s got a half a mind to say something pretty rude or follow me in his wheelchair. Run me down with it?  I don’t know.

I just know I was relieved when the whirring sound of that chair receded down the street, the man taking away his dark secrets, leaving me to ponder  the fate of the poor families confronted with Mr. Adrenaline Junkie  and whether his ride would end with a shotgun blast or prison—and how soon.