Please Wait To Cross

BETH I’m at my corner waiting for the first high schoolers to amble up when I see a well-dressed man striding purposefully up the sidewalk toward me. Black shiny shoes, navy pants, light blue button down, navy windbreaker. Tanned skin, clean shaven, dark baseball cap covering his hair. I can’t make out the logo above the brim. He’s carrying two medium hot Dunkin coffees. It’s early for Mr. Professional to be on my street. There aren’t any offices around me. I go up onto the balls of my feet for a few seconds and then drop my heels back down. In case I need to be ready to run. You never know these days. And then he stops a few feet away from me. Doesn’t say anything. Just looks. Might ratchet up to code yellow in a second. This silence is ridiculous. And awkward. “Hello,” I finally say. “Can I help you?” He blinks. Clears his throat. “Can you help me?” Pause. “Do you know who I am?” Oh, this guy. Seriously? It’s six a.m. “Do you know who I am?” I reply, tipping up my chin slightly. He blinks again. “Well yes of course I do,” he says. I have no idea what is going on. I look around for a white windowless van with mud-covered license plates. “You’re Bitty Rhinehart,” he says. “Beth,” I say. “I prefer Beth.” He nods. “Right, yes, Beth. Sorry.” And yet … he still doesn’t introduce himself. “I brought you a coffee,” he says, holding one out to me. “Why would I accept a coffee from you?” I ask, taking two steps backwards and bumping up against my light pole. I take a discreet peek around to see if any kids are in sight to save me from this sociopath. “Because I’m the police chief,” he says. “You are?” “Yes. I’m Mike. Mike Ponce. The chief of police.” Ah. The chief. I vaguely remember him from when Chickie died last spring. He was helpful. Nice. Sweet to my sister. Oh! Now I remember him, but it’s not from last April. “You made out with my sister,” I say. Now he really looks confused. “Well, forty years ago,” he finally replies. “At the time she said you were a sloppy kisser.” “She did?” “Yes. I believe the words were ‘I almost drowned in his spit.’ ” “Wow, you have a great memory,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s hard to lose that image, I guess.” “Well, I’ve had a lot of practice since then. Honed my technique,” he snaps back. “Hmmm. She also said you touched her boobs. Or maybe mauled? She gave it a two out of ten, did not recommend.” “Want to test me?” He takes a step toward me. That gives me one second of pause but I recover quickly. “Maybe I should text KK and she can give you a do-over.” He opens his mouth and then closes it. Without another word he turns and walks down the sidewalk, back the way he came. He’s still holding the coffees. My first kids arrive at the corner, and I greet them with a big smile and a cheery “good morning,” never taking my eyes off his receding silhouette. His ass looks really good in those pants. MIKE I have no idea how that spiraled so far out of control so fast. Aren’t I supposed to be an expert in de-escalation? What is wrong with me? I bring a woman - a female employee - a coffee and I end up in an argument? About how I kiss? And then I basically dare her to kiss me? I breathe in and breathe back out. I will try again and this time I won’t be a weirdo-slash-perv. I’ll be normal. Charming. Conversational. Professional. So here I am, walking up this hill again, this time armed with a Dunkin iced coffee, light and sweet. That’s how everyone drinks it, right? I can tell when she sees me because she rises up on her toes a couple of times and then reaches for her tote bag, pulling its straps over her shoulder. She’s again in yoga pants and a tight tank. I feel like she should be wearing more clothes, be more covered up. There’s plenty of time before the high school kids arrive. “Good morning!” I say cheerfully. “Hello,” she says, taking a step back from me. “I wanted to hopefully start over this morning. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I brought you a coffee and I’d like to properly introduce myself. I’m Mike Ponce, chief of police.” I hold out the coffee in my left hand and offer my right hand to shake. She accepts neither. “No thanks,” she says. “No?” I awkwardly drop my right hand but my brain refuses to let me draw back the hand holding the now very sweaty plastic cup of iced coffee. “No, we’re good. I’m good. I don’t need a coffee.” “No coffee?” Am I Hemingway? Can I string together more than two words? She just shrugs and smiles and pulls out her White Sox cap from her tote. She places it on her head and tugs the brim down low. “Why not?” I ask. I hate myself. She sighs. Like a “why me, God?” sigh. “First of all, it’s a weird color. I mean how much milk is in there? Or is it cream? It’s so light it’s not even beige. Is there any actual coffee in that coffee? “And second of all, I can’t drink coffee if I have to be out here for three hours. I’ll wet my pants. I don’t get bathroom breaks. Hell, I don’t get a bathroom. So … no thank you. Appreciate you stopping by, though. Consider us ‘started over’.” Now I pull back the coffee arm. I realize I’m just standing there and she’s just looking at me, her head tilted slightly to the side. “You were good to my sister when Chickie died,” she says. “We appreciated that. Thank you.” I’m going to take those three sentences as a win, and leave. I nod at her. “Have a good day,” I say. “Be safe.” As I turn to walk back to my car, I hear her say quietly, “You too.”