It was hot. Texas. August. Hot. I loaded my groceries into the car and returned my shopping cart, a simple, but mindful act. During a training session, years ago, the speaker (my friend, Cindy) reminded us that a person of character returns the cart. This task never fails to bring her to mind or the obligation that I must strive to live as a person of character. Pre-hurricane downpours or sunshine, freezing temperatures or pavement-melting heat, do not deter me; I return my shopping cart and think of my friend.
The H-E-B parking lot was crowded, and I enjoyed one of my favorite past times, people watching, as I walked back to my car. The teen wrangling stray carts (obviously stranded by people without character, or perchance, without the privilege of character training) was sporting a hairdo that defied imagination and gravity. You could tell by his strut, in his tight pencil-legged jeans, that he deemed himself hot … sizzling like the pavement. The gaggle of girls giggling at him and flipping their long hair, pretending not to look his way but making sure he knew they were not looking his way, thought the same. I smiled. Oh, to be young. Oh, to remember how to flirt, albeit awkwardly. Oh, to even want to flirt! Walking towards me, pushing a basket of groceries was a young family – the mother talking to her daughter in the cart, the father reaching down, picking up his son, and to the son’s delight, throwing him upon his shoulders. Beauty! I was filled with joy, that is, until an F350 pickup pulled beside me and stopped. This is not your average good ‘ole boy Texas pickup; it’s a truck on testosterone. Around here, you expect to see large dually trucks; they are part of the landscape and necessary for hauling equipment and livestock. But just like cowboy hats paraded by men who have never stepped in a pile of horse shit, many of these trucks are purchased for status or, more accurately, an expensive compensation for … for what is feared to be lacking. In the back window and on the bumper were crass messages and negative political statements in peel and stick letters and graphics; obviously, he was not a happy man. Despite, or maybe because of, the obtuse driver, I laughed. In this parking lot, our limited troupe represented a true microcosm of the community. As I neared the hood of the dually, the driver blasted his horn. Enraged (and feeling inadequate?), Mr. Obtuse was attempting to gain the teen’s attention, commanding him to move a shopping cart that blocked a desired parking space.
The horn shocked me back into reality and my heightened startle reflex and lack of balance (gifts from my multiple sclerosis) threw me into a spastic and not so graceful fall, sending my cane flying under the offending testosterone metaphor. The cart boy with his adoring entourage and the young family were instantly at my side. Cart Boy insisted that the truck had hit me – it had not. My inability to get up unaided seemed to confirm his belief. I was okay but would need my cane or a shopping cart to help me stand. Sprawled akimbo, I felt the pavement; it was beginning to burn, really burn. I explained to the troupe that I was not injured but was blistering from the heat. The boy who, moments earlier, had been riding on his daddy’s shoulders, translated to his father what I was saying, and I caught the boy’s now seemingly accurate description of me, “La Vieja” (The Old Woman). Before I knew it, the dad pulled off his shirt and placed it under my hand and arm to protect my bare skin from the heat; following his dad’s example, the little boy scampered out of his own shirt. They did not need to attend training; they were already people of character.
It all happened so quickly, and I was soon upright and escorted to my car. Cart-boy with the “do” and tight pants wanted to call the police … or … his manager … or … somebody. The girls … still twitterpated, shook their heads in agreement (they would agree to anything Cart Boy recommended). The young family stayed by my side.
I returned the shirts to the father and as I sat in my car, overwhelmed by love, the mother pulled a cold “Orange Burst” from her sack of groceries and handed it to me. Best damn orange drink, ever.
