Crossing Main St.

It didn't make any sense.

You start a project with someone, you keep on them until it's done. It's not Whack-A-Mole: you just don't hit the targets you can see. You get assigned to take out a mole, you can be damned sure, one way or another, you're going to get dirty. You dig out the mole, or you can be certain someone else will dig the hole for you.

That's the way we did things.

Whoever was coming for me had to be playing by a very different set of rules.

Immediately I left the hospital, my next stop was at the nearby all-night drug store.

I burned through the last of my emergency cash to pick up some necessities to keep me and the dog going while I sorted out this shit: a couple of disposable cell phones, half-a-dozen cans of dog food and all the Ramen noodles I could carry.

I had promised myself that I was going to live my entire post sheet cake life without ever tasting that shit again. Each time we would go out, they told us that it had everything we needed to keep going: all the nutrition and more than enough calories, blah, blah, blah. It did the trick; it nourished the body, but spend enough time eating that and it will kill your soul.

I waited impatiently for the light to change so I could cross the street.

South below Main Street and then back to the east before turning north close to the alley and the house where I had left my dog.

As I walked through the residential streets, I quickly set up one of the phones so I could scan for news of the night's events.

Nothing.

I checked the website of the local paper and the radio stations; I checked the sites in the surrounding communities.

One site had the car crash, another the “mischief” call at the hospital.

Nowhere did I see any mention of a gunshot.

Why wouldn't they mention that? How could they have left that...?

The cast of this little drama just got bigger.

A little more clicking and scrolling and I found a phone app that monitored police and fire frequencies. It wasn't real-time, but it would be close enough for my purposes.

It was too light now for me to still be on the streets. If they were looking for me, they would be looking for me.

And besides, my dog would be looking for me too.

Traffic was beginning to pick up as I attempted to re-cross Main Street. Each short block was becoming its own race course as drivers readily put themselves, and others, at risk in order to arrive at the next light a few seconds ahead of everybody else. Doesn't matter what it looks like in your driveway, every car is a Formula One racer during rush hour.

I was forced to stop in the middle of the street for a few seconds while one beat-up pick-up traded lanes and advantage with what we used to call an “economy car.” I didn't like my odds of getting across before they picked me off, so I decided to wait for them to pass.

So, I stood there—in the middle of the street--watching these vehicles bobbing and weaving through traffic, with only a yellow paint strip to protect me. The drivers had some skill. I was impressed that they avoided hitting one another, or any other drivers.

They were getting closer.

I wasn't thinking.

And then I was. What was my problem?

I turned around only to narrowly avoid being clipped by a car traveling in opposite direction.

I had to get out of the street.

The discordant sound of multiple car horns seemed to make a bad situation worse.

Couldn't go forward. Couldn't go back.

I felt like everyone was staring at me.

And then there was a small break in east-bound traffic.

I stepped into it waving my white plastic bags back and forth and daring the minivan that was bearing down on me not to stop.

After it stopped, I stepped into the curb lane and dared another vehicle not to kill me.

More car horns.

Some words were exchanged.

The two west-bound racing cars passed behind me.

I decided to walk another four blocks before again attempting to cross to the north side of Main Street.

This time, I used the crosswalk.

And as I crossed, I could feel the beady eye of the traffic camera measuring my every step.