•••
I stopped just short of running it over. It was more than just another cardboard box in the middle of the road. Instead, a well-used “Catch-All Gear Bag” (as the catalog describes it) lay on its side, zippers undone and obviously violated. A multi-tool in a pouch inscribed with “NRA” had been tossed aside. I picked it up and carefully placed it into one of the half-dozen pockets.
But not before I paused. And I hate that I paused. I hate that I thought twice. I hate that our country is so divided by hate.
An NRA pouch, a hunter’s bag, a stolen bag on a city street, a “white guy” name on a day log for a suburban tree-trimming company. Older, white, possibly and understandably angry NRA supporter. Did I want this guy showing up at my house to retrieve his bag? With a severely internet-poisoned election just days away, what was I getting into? I placed the bag gently into the back of the car.
I hate that I paused, and I hate that I had to worry that this guy might be pretty angry, and take it out on me. I called anyway. The woman at the tree-trimming service said she’d check it out and get back to me. I waited, wondering. Maybe I should have just left the bag on the side of the road. Too late for that now.
I couldn’t help remembering a half-dozen little incidents over the last dozen years where I was stunned to witness angry guys who looked an awful lot like me ranting at store clerks or slamming their grocery carts into mine or screaming at me while waiting in line for a car wash. That last scene had to be broken up by the attendant, who clearly had seen it all.
Then Bill called. A quiet, calm voice on the other end of the line. Grateful that I had picked up his bag. Not an ogre or madman. Just a guy who’d had a tough day but was doing his best to get through life.