Up front I want to be clear that this isn’t a post about my black friend I carpool with to work everyday. If it was, it would have been titled Fatboy & Leroy. And it would have detailed our repetitive arguments over why he insists on listening to rap on the way to work when we all know he is a closet country fan. Or how he thought I was mocking the month of February because I was low riding my pants. But this is totally not about that.
Directly in front of him lay 90 degrees of escape routes. Of the 90 degrees, only 1% of that space was occupied. He could jump, walk, skip, hell he could even trip and fall to safety. But it wasn’t worth the risk. He was sure that he hadn’t been spotted yet. But he had to move. He slowly started to lift his left leg – and the damn thing turned toward him!
Every hair on his body politely stood up and made for the exit. It had to be at least 8 feet wide. The hell was it doing?
It stopped mid way on it’s collision course with him. Paused like a cobra about to strike. It’s eyes taking in every possible outcome and preparing a diabolical reaction for each.
His breath was caught in a traffic jam somewhere between his lungs and Adams Apple. This was a 30 car pile up; his breath wasn’t going to make it out any time soon. His breath called his wife, told her and the kids to eat without him.
How long had he been cornered? 6, 7 hours? He checked his watch. It had been 20 seconds.