Parable for a New World Order

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 continued slowly weaving 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 a man older than myself step out of the back seat of an SUV. His legs gave way, and he stumbled for a couple of steps before falling toward the feeder lane, right into 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 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 tried unsuccessfully to get to his feet. I attempted to help him stand, but neither he nor his legs cooperated.

I stopped trying to lift him, took a breath, and asked his name. “Paul,” he replied, relaxing a little.

A 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 outta my 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 asked Paul if he had any broken bones. He said, “I don’t think so.”

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.

Two middle-aged clerks trotting from the hardware store arrived at the scene. They wore name tags: Howard and Wes. I introduced them to Paul and Stacy and stepped away to give them room to work.

The hardware guys tried to get Paul on his feet with no better results than my feeble effort. Stacy assisted the clerks, but even with her help, the old guy couldn’t get his legs to stabilize under him.

Stuck in traffic, the rude white dude in the red pickup was now watching the show. “Let the geezer die,” he growled barely loud enough for me to hear, “He’s a drag on us all.” 

From out of the car behind the pickup, a big man with a good build and a look of concern approached us. 

“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 got down on your hands and knees in front of Paul, then we could slide Paul up onto your back.”

While Stacy, Wes, and Howard worked out how they would do it, I encouraged Paul to get his arms around Luis and hold on tight. 

“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. 

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

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

Paul replied, “Was gonna help you.” 

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. Then she looked around. “Thank you all.”

As the helping hands dispersed, the young man in the red truck revved his engine. His exhaust pipes bellowed, and his tires squeaked like a tiny mouse as he pulled away.