This short story emerged because it is literally against my religion to sit back and do nothing while a purposefully misinformed and violence-prone faction undermines American values.

What I’m able to do now is write.

The featured image was generated by Scooter Smith using Adobe Firefly.

The muscular young man smirked at the old white guy falling forward into the path of his big red pickup before revving the engine, making its exhaust pipes roar. I was amazed that he tried to continue moving forward through the crowded parking lot, barely missing the man’s outstretched arms on the pavement.

I was walking back to my car from the hardware store when I saw the man step out of the back seat of an SUV. Older than myself, his legs gave way. He stumbled for a couple of steps before falling into the feeder lane toward the path of the approaching pickup. 

Electric dread shot through my body at the unfolding tragedy. I tried to rush to the now sprawled-out dude as fast as my bad knees would allow.

Not giving the situation a second thought, the driver of the big red truck aggressively honked his horn at the vehicle in front of him and made a rude gesture at a car approaching us in the correct lane. The driver of that car moved to the right to avoid being hit by the pickup and stopped before running over the guy on the pavement.

When I finally reached the fallen man, I found him grumbling and cursing to himself as he struggled to get to his feet. Using my cane to help steady us both, I attempted to help him stand, but neither he nor his legs cooperated.

I took a breath, and asked his name. “Paul,” he replied, relaxing a little.

A small black woman jumped out of the stopped car, her driver’s side door right next to the cab of the red truck. The young man leaned out of its window and said, “Bitch! Get out of the way!”

Ignoring the taunt, she ran to help, leaving her car positioned to protect us by blocking traffic in her lane. 

She kneeled next to us and immediately asked if he had any broken bones.

I shrugged my shoulders. Paul replied, “I don’t think so.”

Introducing them, I said, “This is Paul. Thanks for helping, uh.” I left a space for her to answer.

She filled in the space, “Stacy.”

“Dodd,” I said, indicating myself. She smiled at me briefly before continuing to check Paul for injuries. She moved like a professional nurse.

A middle-aged clerk with a big, sandy mustache trotted from the hardware store and quickly arrived at the scene. He wore a name tag: Wes. I introduced him to Paul and Stacy and stepped back to give them room to work.

Together, Wes and Stacy tried to get Paul on his feet with no better results than my feeble effort. The old guy just couldn’t get his legs to stabilize under him.

Stuck in traffic, the rude white dude in the red pickup appeared to be enjoying the show. “Let the geezer die,” he growled barely loud enough for me to hear.

A big man with a good build and a look of concern approached us from a car stuck two vehicles behind the pickup,  

“Hey! Thanks for the help,” I said before asking,”What’s your name?”

“Luis Molina,” he said, flashing a radiant smile, “What’s yours?”

“Just call me Dodd,” I replied.

The size of this guy gave me an idea. Addressing the group, I said, “Luis, if you squat down in front of Paul, then we could slide him up onto your back.”

While Stacy and Wes managed to raise the old dude to his knees, I encouraged Paul to get his arms around Luis and hold on tight.

“Hold on to him like you’re Superman’s cape.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

Luis stood up and Paul rode him into a standing position. Then, steadied by the gathered helpers, he managed to get his feet and legs to hold him up. Wobbly, but erect.

A middle-aged woman and a young lady who could have been her daughter walked up as Stacy and Wes led Paul back to the open door of the SUV.

The woman exclaimed, “Dad! What are you doing out of the car?” 

Paul replied, “Wanted to help.” 

I caught her eye as she was shaking her head in disbelief.

“Scratches and bruises for sure,” I told her, “But I would check him over when you get home.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Turning to face Tracy, Wes, and Luis, she graced them with a sweet smile. “Thank you all. Bless you all.”

The helping hands dispersed while traffic began to unsnarl.

Meanwhile, the young man in the red truck revved his engine and his exhaust pipes bellowed. The pickup lurched forward as his tires sought traction, squeaking like the tiniest mouse.