Picture this:

Me.
Jack Moss.
Walking into the Starbucks
With my friend Tommy Edwards
Standing in line.
Tapping my foot to the music.
Not bothering to even look at the menu on the wall

Because I know what I want.
Because I get the same thing every time.
Venti
Caramel Frappacino
Two shots of expresso
Extra extra caramel syrup on top.

Then a man taps me on the shoulder
I look at him
He looks me straight in the eye and says
“I know you! But you don’t know me!”
I smirk, give him a polite nod,
And I look up at the menu.
Like I am interested
In the words written so nicely in brown cursive.

He taps me on the shoulder again
This time he taps harder.
Much harder
And he hollers
“I know you! But you don’t know me!”
I turn around,
Straighten my jacket
And I say
“Is that right, fella? You know me?"
“Yes,” he says quietly.
I look around.
Everyone’s interested.
Wanting to know what’s going on.
Needing to understand the commotion.
“Well how do you know me?” I ask.
My voice is calm, my tone is even.
“You’re the guy that fired my wife,” he says.
“You’re the guy that wrecked our lives.
She said she didn’t want to sleep with you,
And that should have been enough.
But you had to wreck our worlds, wreck our lives.”

Then he pulls out a gun and shoots me in the foot.
My friend Tommy takes off running.
Even though I am yelling,
“Tommy, man! Help me man!”
Tommy’s out the front door.
Disappears into thin air.
The gunman is in awe.
Looks at me.
Then at the door.
Then back at me.
“That’s Tommy?” he asks.
His voice is calm. His tone is even.
“Yes,” I said.
I wince and hunch over .
Like everyone else hiding for cover.
“Oh,” the man said.
“And who are you?”
“I’m Jack!”
My voice is high. It is not calm.
The man looks at door.
Then back at me.
Then back at the door.
“But that’s Tommy’s car. And you were driving."
His voice is calm. His voice is even.
“Yes,” I said. “He let me drive his new car.
Thinking about buying one myself!"
“Oh,” he said.
He apologizes.
His voice is calm.
And somewhat remorseful.
He shoves the gun in his waste.
And headed out the door.
Never to be seen again.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop, January 7, 2011. Writing prompt: Begin a story with "Picture This"; 10 minute writing exercise.

Afterword

I think this small story came out of what I see happening from time to time: people are enjoying themselves in some shop, restaurant, etc... and some mess jumps off. People are killed and injured. And then there is a long journey to find out "why" it happened.

This bothers me, as it would any other person. I struggle within the deep recesses of my mind, especially when the dead are remembered... they are loving, kind, the salt of the earth, would never hurt a soul, loved everyone, would give their last for their fellow man, wonderful parent, wonderful sibling, wonderful child... Great person.

I ask questions. Wonder why them... and not me.

I float back up to the surface of my mind... and...

I straddle the fence of being mindful of what is going on around me and just going wherever I want and enjoy myself.

But I often think about how blessed, lucky, fortunate (or whatever you'd like to call it) we are that we don't have to worry about sitting in a venue and someone comes in with a bomb strapped to their body and... you know the rest.

Middle eastern countries deal with such on a frequent basis. It is as rare as an eclipse in our country.

But we have tragedy from time to time. It shocks. It angers. It confuses. It pisses us off.

It leaves a nasty residue on the emotions... One that may never ever be erased, no matter how much elbow grease you use.

And the story above... It is not tragic.

Or is it?