I don’t keep a daily journal, but if I did, this story would be in it with top billing.
It truly happened, but I added my running mental commentary.
After all, it;s my journal.

Early on the Saturday morning after Christmas, our footsteps and the scrape-thump of John’s walker echoed in empty hospital halls. As we exited through the ER entrance, we met a couple at the door: a glassy-eyed man in a gray hoodie with a bandage on his head and an agitated woman in pink fuzzy slippers, a thin t-shirt, and cropped sweats.“Pardon me, ma’am. Are you leaving? Would you be willing to give us a ride to our car? It’s by the Kwik Star.”

I glanced at John trailing a few steps behind, and said, “Why don’t we step into the waiting room here, and you can tell me what you need.”

A jumbled story poured out of two mouths, sometimes simultaneously. Their house flooded, they bought a used trailer in Pella, had to fill the tires at gas station, didn’t have a license plate on it cause they just got it, got pulled over by police over on the entrance ramp to the highway. Randomly interspersed, we heard: “I’m a veteran, my babies are locked in the car, service dogs, I was just left sitting by the road, 911, panic attack, surrounded by 10 policemen.”

I have sorted the information as I deem relevant to aid comprehension.

We agreed to bring them to their car/trailer. I retrieved John’s pickup from the lot everybody quickly piled in. As I stowed John’s chariot/walker in the truck bed, I found two male nurses running out of the door.

“Do you know what you are doing?” Bad teeth in a pinched face.

“We said we would give them a ride to their car.”

Pugnacious furrows form on his forehead.

Can frown lines be pugnacious? Maybe it was the way he was gritting his teeth.
The other guy tensed his muscles, nicely evident under dark blue scrubs. Squirrel…

“Is there something you think that I should know.”

No verbal response, but HIPPA laws scroll across their foreheads.

“I know they are not totally sober. Is there anything else I should know.”

At this point, the woman had her window halfway down, listening and making derogatory sounding noises. I turned my head toward her and used my mom voice. “Please quit talking, and close the window.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Gray hoodie leans across and pushes close button. “She will, ma’am. We’re really sorry.”

Then a cruiser stops and two policemen stand in line for a chat, feet spread, hands resting chest high in the vests, holster straps unsnapped.

Lips pursed, the toothy nurse swiveled toward the police. “You gonna let them do this?”

So the cops take over, as the nurses do a slow fade through automatic doors, walking backwards, still poised for action.

“Is there something I need to know?”

Mirrored stances with cloned bland flat ready neutral faces. One man shrugged. He also did all the talking

Did you know that it is possible to micro shrug by twitching just one shoulder?
It takes some studied control. I tried it several times as I wrote this.

“If you are willing, ma’am. Be careful.”

“I’m assuming you searched for weapons when you brought them in.”

“Not us. They came in last night.”

“But is it a correct assumption?”

I took a head tilt for a nod. “Anything else I should know?”

“Be careful.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

There must be a special course in police school on impersonal indifferent stolid interactions
with old ladies. But, is it supposed to be reassuring or are they trying to withdraw responsibility
for whatever this particular old woman decides to do? I’m as unsure now as I was then.

I turned left out of the parking lot.

“Where are you going?”

Sometimes, I admit that I find my husband’s directional interjections irritating, but not this time.

“I guess I don’t know. My directions…where is Kwik Star again?”

“Past Walmart and Fareway…”

At this point, I concentrated on driving, and John engaged our passengers in conversation. They talked about driving trucks, hauling cattle, and “combinations.”

Adrenalin reached my brain at this point, I think. it was foggy and wet,
and I was passing Walmart, then Fareway, and which way do I go again?

Hubby repeated his directions verbatim, and I followed them with rote precision, concentrating on an entrance to the Highway that always bothers me: Over the bridge, turn right not onto, but next to, the exit ramp. Now you follow a circular entrance ramp, and there were their vehicles.

Turn the wrong way to go the right way. Unnerves me every time.

The woman was out of the car like a shot, yelling “thank you” and “my babies.” She opened the car door, and dogs burst out with a lick, a circle, a whine, and more circles.

“Can I pay you something?”

“No need.” Hubby said. “Glad to help.”

“Anything else we can do for you?” I asked.

“Might need to jump the car,” he pushed his hood off and stuck his head back inside the truck. “Bless you.”

“Just give us a signal when you’re good for us to leave.”

He disappeared, but we saw the smoke when he revved the engine. He walked past the trailer and gave us a thumbs up before joining his woman who was still hugging the dogs.

We waved and circled onto the highway.

“Got our good deed out of the way early today,” Hubby said.

I cracked open the back windows to diminish the smell of cigarettes.

“I think I need a nap.”