• I Was Wrong


    I don’t think he was counting on the light being red. For he looked jittery and more than slightly annoyed. This part wasn’t a guess; it was as much of a fact as how cold and dreary that day was.

    I pressed the button and stared at the little light post across the street, although I suspected he already had pushed the button. However, soon it became clear to me that he wasn’t planning on waiting for that light to change at all. He had defined muscles that showed even through his gray winter sweats. He pumped his legs impatiently as he watched the cars rush by; his heavy black duffle bag bounced along with him.

    He was an army officer, assuming that his sweatshirt wasn’t lying. He was just back from someplace stiflingly hot at all seasons. So when he went for his afternoon jog here, he had to bundle up in warm sweats and a black ski mask.

    He looked a little startled. At first I thought it was the police car sirens sounding in the distance. However, soon I noticed that his eyes were deadlocked on a white jeep stopped at the intersection. Even through the ski mask, he had a determined gleam. There was a long-lost lover inside, distraught from not hearing from him while he was away. He had to let her know that he was alive, before she drove off to greener pastures.

    He was planning on running in front of that intersection, as soon as the way was clear. He was going to throw his arms out in front of the car and rip off the mask. Then it would rain, pelting wet bullets, causing his sweats to sag on his body. Shocked and gleeful, she would clamber out of the jeep, tears of happiness in her eyes. And then she would leap into his arms.

    Then, both smattered with rain, they would share a passionate kiss, unaware of all of the traffic that they were holding up. No, they would be too busy embracing the miracle of happenstance, and the strange, electric coincidences that fuel our lives.

    I heard shouting coming from the church, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. We both looked back for only a second. When I turned my head again, he had bolted across the street, not waiting for the red hand to turn white. He leapt into the backseat of the white jeep and threw the duffle into the trunk. He did this all in what seemed to be three seamless steps. The jeep accelerated through the red light and tore down the road. I thought, for a second, it might have taken the asphalt with it; the wheels moved with such purpose.

    The police cars then shot after them, and the shouting and heavy footsteps caught up to me, “Did you get a good look at him?” asked a mustached policeman. I looked up at him and shook my head. He asked me other questions: the jeep’s license plate, his physical stature, if he spoke to me. I couldn’t answer any of them. Not the way they wanted me to.

    If a picture were really worth a thousand words, then I would take a mental snapshot of everyone I met. And I would lay them out and tell you a million stories. But in the end, there is no way of seeing through the fog in your lens. You’ll always be looking at first impressions and ideals. Behind the ski mask, there was someone much different than the picture I had painted. I can’t tell you who it was, exactly. And I never will be able to. But I can tell you that I was wrong.