The Sunmart Incident

It all happened in the Sunmart parking lot on a hot day in early August. I needed cash and they had an ATM.

I parked next to a small white pickup. The driver’s side window was down and there he was – late 50s, white hair, nicely trimmed beard, t-shirt and baseball cap – slumped over to the right catching some sleep, probably waiting for his wife to come back with the groceries. I locked the car with my key fob, but the toot of the horn didn’t wake him.

He was out.

Cold.

Inside, I kept an eye on the truck through the large windows, between the posters advertising the day’s sales, while walking to the ATM. For some reason, My PIN number wouldn’t come to mind. I left, cashless, angry that I would have to now run to the bank and change my PIN.

The man had not moved. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. He was parking in the opposite direction, so my car door was next to his. I cautiously knocked on his door.

“Sir, you OK?”

He made two short, jerking motions, seizure-like. Like a dog dreaming of rabbits. He grunted.

I leaned closer, for some reason an image of a knife flashing at my jugular crossed my mind, as if he was feigning sleep until some poor passerby got close enough to fall into his trap. I have this same thought every time the UPS guy comes to the door.

But I leaned, and saw perched in front of him against the steering wheel and automatic gear shift a yellow legal notebook and a magazine open to a female model. I followed his arm down with my gaze, and saw his right hand resting between his legs.

“Dude has no pants!” I thought. “No pants. As in pantless.”

No bits and pieces were hanging out, but still, not something you want to come across. Ever. This event is on no one’s bucket list. If George Carlin had appeared in front of me in a time traveling phone booth, I don't know if I would have been surprised. My instant reaction to pants-less McGee was to pull back against my car. Did I really see that? Should I make sure? Hell to the no.

I poured myself into my car, carefully. At this point, I did not want him to wake and see me. He would know. He would find that knife and come for me.

I re-parked at the far end of the lot, briefly considered pulling an Oedipus Rex on my eyeballs. I could still see the white pickup to my left. A phone booth to my right. Was this an emergency? I didn’t know, so I searched for the police number. They put me through to dispatch.

“I’d like to request a welfare check,” I said.

I waited for the police. Meanwhile a large van pulled up and five people got out. The driver also noticed the man. She kept hitting the lock on her key fob as if trying to wake him in the passive, polite Midwestern way. It didn't work.

Ten minutes later, a cop showed up and asked me where to find the vehicle. I told him and wandered off to my car. Another cop car pulled in. I heard the first going through the spiel "Sir, are you OK?" I got in my car and tried to drive off. That’s when the reporter part of me turned the wheel to find another parking spot. I waited, only able to see the policeman’s head over the roofs of cars.

An ambulance pulled up and left without him.

The mind boggles. What could have possessed this man, who wouldn’t earn a second glance upon seeing him in a mall or at a golf course on a normal day. What could have led him to this particular store, this particular spot, this state of dress?

Option 1. His wife of 25 years, a mid-level manager at an insurance agency, told him “I don’t love you anymore.” Their children were grown and out of the house. The last few years of the marriage were sketchy, sure, but not as bad as that. Surely not to the point she would find comfort in one of her co-workers. The last year comes back in a rush, the late nights, the sudden need to join a bridge club that met weekly. Oh God. The next day, after a night on the couch, he picks up a RedBook on the way out of the house, a notebook to plan the divorce. He drives for several hours, not sure where he could go, he gets hungry. Pulls over. Before he can get out of the pickup, before he even knows it, the magazine is in his hands.

Option 2. That morning, he lost his son. SUV and bike. No hope. Should he eat something? He pulls over. His stomach is a pit, filled with the thoughts of a wasted life. Nothing left. He downs all the pills the doctor prescribed. The magazine offers little relief.

Option 3. Or it was just me in 20 years.

In any case, I couldn’t wait anymore. I didn’t want to know. The human part of me outweighed the reporter. And I left.