A Fragile Walk Along The Centerline
An elderly man in a faded green work jacket dug the rubber tip of a taped-together wooden cane into the yellow centerline of an active roadway. His shoulders hunched forward as headlights flickered in the distance, cars cruising past on both sides of him.
A blue cruiser rolled to a halt in the lane ahead, red and blue lights pulsing against the gray pavement. Both doors flew open, and two patrol officers ran straight toward the middle of the street.
The male officer took hold of the older man’s left elbow while his partner reached for his right arm to steer him toward the sidewalk. The man pulled back against their grip, both hands clamped over the smooth wooden handle of his cane.
He told them he knew where he was, his breath coming in short gasps while his boots stayed planted on the asphalt. The officers kept their bodies between his frame and oncoming traffic, guiding his shuffling feet toward the edge of the cruiser’s rear fender.
The Loss Of A Taped Memory
Leaning heavily against the side panel of the patrol car, the man held tight to the wooden stick. Gray adhesive tape wrapped the middle of the shaft in thick, overlapping bands.
The male officer reached down and curled his fingers around the wood just above the tape. He tugged firmly, telling the older man to release his grip before the split wood gave out entirely.
With a quick pull, the officer freed the cane from the man’s fingers, turned toward the curb, and dropped it into a metal slatted trash can. The wood hit the bottom with a sharp, hollow thud.
The older man stared at the rim of the can, his mouth open and his eyebrows pulled tight. He asked if he was being placed under arrest as the rear door was held open for him.
He stepped into the back seat, his knees bending stiffly as the door shut behind him. Looking through the wire security partition, he stared out the window as the cruiser pulled away from the curb.
A Stop At The Medical Supply Store
Sitting in the back seat, the man looked down at his empty hands resting on his thighs. He mentioned that his wife had been gone for nineteen years, and that his only son lived out of state in Arizona.
The cruiser pulled up to the front doors of a medical supply storefront and shifted into park. Both officers stepped out, leaving the man watching through the glass as they walked past the display windows.
Inside, the male officer pulled a card from his wallet and handed it across the register counter to the clerk. Moments later, the glass doors swung outward as he wheeled a dark blue motorized chair with large rear tires onto the sidewalk.
The tag still hung from the armrest, listing a retail price of nearly six hundred dollars. The female officer opened the cruiser door, reaching her hand out to help the passenger stand.
The older man shook his head, his hands gripping the interior door frame as he stated he could not accept charity. He explained that the roll of tape around his old cane was put there by his wife’s hands nearly two decades ago.
Rolling Toward The Pharmacy
The officer crouched down to eye level, telling him the tape had done its job to protect him for as long as it could. The man raised the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the corner of his eye.
He placed his palm into the officer’s outstretched hand and leaned his weight forward. With both officers supporting his arms, he lowered himself into the padded seat of the electric wheelchair.
His fingers wrapped around the joystick controller mounted on the right armrest. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, his shoulders trembling as he whispered his thanks.
When asked where he had been walking, he looked down the street and said he needed heart medication from the pharmacy four blocks away. The male officer moved behind the seat, taking hold of the push handles to guide him forward.
The female officer stepped into the crosswalk, raising her palm to halt oncoming sedans as the dark blue wheelchair rolled smoothly across the white painted lines of the intersection.
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