(This is my first update in over a month; after what happened in the Wal~Mart parking lot I was--as you can imagine--pretty shaken up. Shaken AND stirred. Click on "what happened" to either refresh your memory or get caught up before continuing here.)
If anyone other than myself is reading this it means things seem safer, that issues have somewhat ironed themselves out. Nothing significant pertaining to the shooting has occurred this past month... so there's that.
Also, I've been scouring the papers for notices of homicides, unlawful discharges of firearms, or missing persons; nothing so far... so there's that.
Ruminated this entire week on what I did, didn't do, should have done, etc. Fubared numerous salt mine operations, dinged up two company vehicles, and even broke the door to the Men's room. On accident. You could say my mind was elsewhere.
Trying not to blame myself too much--I mean that definitely was a gunshot I heard--which of course gives me an excuse for peeing myself and fleeing the scene.
But.
But what about not calling the police?
Yep, that's the way it went down, folks. I still haven't called them.
At first I panicked. Then, at home, I was so distraught I forgot about my perishables--melting, in my car--for a good three hours. About the only thing I didn't screw up was immediately jotting down all the important particulars.
OK, that's all fine and dandy. But why didn't I call the police? (I'm telling you, it's been like this non-stop: interrogating myself, second-guessing and blaming myself; the self-flagellation has been rampant.)
Now, in retrospect, my first reason seems pretty ill: it might have been a car backfiring.
But I know it wasn't that. I remember scanning where the loud report came from, and there weren't any running cars in that area. Peripherally, yes: there were running vehicles in the parking lot; but not in that direction and not close enough to where I heard that shot fired.
I guess I just wanted more proof. And I couldn't remember anything about that car with the stupid salsa on its roof except it was a mid-sized sedan. Still can't remember its color. And it could have been between eight and twelve years old. Or maybe only five. Didn't catch the license plate.
And I couldn't... exactly... tell who got shot.
The sickest part about my hesitation to call the police (and yes, technically it is "hesitation" because I still might call them) is that though I didn't get a good look at the driver, at first I thought it was the other guy. Which would mean that salsa guy was shot and not the other way around.
And salsa guy was a jerk. He picks a fight with me, that if it weren't for my being such a gentleman and if they didn't have cameras spread ubiquitously all over the inside of that Wal~Mart, it might well have led to something. Something violent. With me, the victim, simply defending myself.
And so I didn't call the police. I read the papers instead. And watched the evening news. Nothing. Still nothing.
And now I'm thinking perhaps I should get on the blower.
One, it could have been a backfire. But that's just wrong. Two, it's not always good to get involved. I was on the verge of getting involved when I saw salsa guy start to rough up this other innocent shopper, but then, when I heard that gun go off, my fight-or-flight reflex sent me flying. And three, there're always other people around who report these sorts of things and I just knew someone else was driving by and talking on his or her cell and put that caller on hold and dialed nine one one.
But nothing in the news. Yet. Though there's still time.
God, it's been like this all month.
I shoulda just thrown my bananas at the feet of that jerk and said, "Look, mister: these are YOUR nanners now! Go pick me out a new bunch."
And if he woulda given me any lip, well, then... I dunno.
I always cobble together a better idea--after the fact. I always think of the perfect comeback--a few days later.
No, but really. If I woulda held him up there in the store, maybe made him "go off" sooner rather than later, made him "lose it" inside the store rather than in the parking lot, then maybe he woulda punched me instead of having to shoot somebody else.
Which woulda been caught on tape, so then we as a society would have been able to do something about it. Something involving judges and juries. Rather than vigilantes. Or hotheads. Yes, I knew if I reacted too vigorously to his banana-assault, the result woulda been me being a hothead. Again. I mean ya gotta wisely choose your battles.
So I held off initially. Then I held off some more. And now I'm in a holding pattern.
I don't know. I just don't know.
All I know is that I would feel so stupid if I called the police now. Sometimes these "missing person" deals surface like months after the fact. People just lose track of each other. For a while. But then we take a head count, or attempt to visit an old friend who never seems to be home, and no one at the country club nor the mini-mart has seen him in weeks; so the papers run a blurb about his disappearance, and then we start getting to the bottom of it.
FORWARD to what happened next
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