IT was a rainy night, and I was on my way to work on the Scoot Scoot. I was definitely taking it slow because roads in LA become a hazard any time a bit of moisture falls, lifting the weeks of accumulating oil to a treacherous surface, in spectrum of indigo. Sirens and rainy days simply go hand in hand. As the weather becomes wild, long palm branches are strewn about on the back roads, giant ladles, or anvils depending which part of the fall you have witnessed. It was the same this evening. Scooter traps. As I navigated carefully through, and came to the stop sign bordering a busy rush hour road, a running man approached the curb to the cross walk. I was slightly surprised to see a runner, as it was inclement, and Angelenos fear cold. He was bundled up, gloves on, and jogged in place. I wondered what he was waiting for. I was stopped behind the cross walk looking for the right moment to turn left into traffic.... When he raised his hand to me like Aretha Franklin saying,
"STOP!"
No... Too flamboyant and sass-insinuating. It was more like a parking attendant saying,
"STOP," You are successfully in the slip.
No, too mundane... It was serious. Authoritative. As we locked eyes, I sitting there with Scoot Scoot humming, blinker clicking, having been waiting patiently for about a minute, the man yelled with lifted arm and palm,
"TAKE YOUR TIME." His eyes continued to hold to mine, looking down slightly in a knowing manner.
I nodded sheepishly, like I had been caught, "OK." Then found my window of opportunity, and drove on, wondering why I had just had that ominous interaction. I thought to myself, "Who sent you!" In an imaginary scenario, where I demand that of him dramatically, and he only smiles, mystically, and looking back, he is gone... or something. "Who sent you!" I demand of him in my mind again, and the jogger is transformed into a man wearing a white suit, playing the piano. Morgan Freeman, perhaps. And I smile and say, "You got it, Morgan." And he glides down the keys something fabulous.
The mystery remained on my mind, "Take your time." Had he lost someone close to him on a motorcycle? Had he been mowed down by one in past, and now distrusts motor bikes? Or an off duty-police officer, who has seen the worst... ? Whatever it was, I was surprised that someone took a moment to speak to me, with power, and a rather imposing physical gesture-- When it is hard to get a nod out of strangers in big cities, most of the time. I was a little shaken up, and wondered why. And proceeded to Take My Time.
(BUT REALLY, WHO SENT YOU)
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