You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The good Samaritan.
I am at an intersection in the middle of nowhere.
It’s rural, empty, like the vacuous thoughts filling Jessica Simpson’s mind.
It is a country road in the middle of Giles County.
I am north of the Alabama border, I am south of decent dental hygiene.
I am on a four lane road beside a country store. The store is little more than a stucco box with a screen door and a car port.
There are signs in front of the store that say Hamburgers $1.99.
It is a warm day, but not humid. The sun is shining and the sky is blue as far as the eye can see.
I am waiting for a woman, a good Samaritan, to exit the store.
“I’ll be right out,” she says by phone. “I’m eating fish.”
“OK,” I say, raising an eye brow.
It’s 10:30 am. Seems a bit early to be eating fish, to me. But hey, it’s a country county and who am I to question.
A man in coveralls walks up to me.
He is filthy. He is slathered in oil and grease.
I suspect he is a mechanic or a sewer worker.
“I watch you all the time,” he says with a big crooked smile.
He has dirt on his face. He has dirt on his hands.
This man is a human mole.
“Thanks. You’re our only viewer,” I joke.
“your only viewer?”
“Just kidding.”
Ha Ha Ha.
His laugh is deep and guttural, like a hay wagon with a bad axle.
“I watch you all the time,” he says again like a broken record.
I smile and check my watch.
This county is so slow, it needs a sun dial to keep the time.
Most people would tip their hat or wave goodbye and go about their business.
This man stares at me like he’s eyeing a pork chop sandwich.
Is he looking for money, a handout, some sage advice.
“Keep watching,” I say hoping to move him on.
He pauses, smiles and waves.
“OK. See you. I watch you all the time.”
Just then, the woman I’m waiting on emerges.
She has stringy hair and broad shoulders.
She has a round head, like a pasty pumpkin.
She is wearing a bright orange shirt that in untucked.
She is carrying her 2-year-old son on her shoulder.
She shakes my hand. Her grip is firm.
“This is Jace,” she says. “He is 2.”
“He’s cute,” I say.
I look at the little boy on his mother’s shoulder. He is squirming, uncomfortable. I wonder if he will disrupt the interview.
Do you want me to put him up with his me-maw?” she asks.
“he was with you right?”
“yes.”
“As long as he’s happy on your shoulder, I’m good with it.”
She begins to tell me her story.
“I saw the man chasing the woman across the road. He was grabbing her and she was screaming no. no. help. get away. I thought he was going to throw her into traffic.”
“Could you tell she had been stabbed?”
“She was wearing a long shirt. I couldn’t see any blood,” she says.
I watch the little boy on her shoulder. He is uncomfortable. He is moving around her neck, scratching the microphone.
He doesn’t look well.
“Is he going to be ok?”
“He was hot this morning when he woke up,” she says.
I ask another question.
The boy on her shoulder squirms.
I sense the heat and the sun.
I pause, hoping the mother will do the right thing.
She begins rubbing his back, as he begins to whine.
“Why don’t you take him inside to his me-maw,” I suggest.
As if on cue, the little boy begins to heave.
I watch his little neck muscles strain. I watch his jaw and cheeks restrict and contort.
Then suddenly:
BLEKH
I watch an orange stream of gunk filled vomit explode from his mouth.
He is a baby Mt. Vesuvius, retching forth something nasty and viscous.
He is gulping for air, inhaling, crying, spewing and chortling.
Then I watch his belly heave and …
BLEKH
Another Niagara Falls of vomit gushes forward.
The mother remains calm, almost unknowing.
I see her shoulder, splattered in viscous, chunk filled baby goo.
She is covered in undigested regurgitative spew.
“I don’t think he’s doing well,” I stupidly say.
She casually glances down on her shoulder. It is saturated.
“you think?”
She could be perturbed, but she is calm.
She walks into the restaurant still wearing the mic.
I will later hear her talking to mee maw
“He threw up all over me, on camera.”
I turn to my camera man and smile.
“Don’t see that every day.”
He smiles back, getting some video of the area we will use for the story.
I stare at the four-way.
A tractor-trailer zooms by.
The roar is deafening.
I see a country dog walking down the other side of the four lane.
The dog has no concerns, knowing just where the fine line between life and death begins and ends.
I turn back to look at the little meat and three not located on any map.
I wonder how good that $1.99 burger really is.
The woman reemerges from the store.
Her shoulder is sopping wet.
“try not to show my wet shirt,” she says.
She’s saturated. I want to laugh out loud.
What a country fried mess.
The little dog shoots me a look as it prances over the ridge.
I swear it was laughing at me.
I smirk.
“OK. Where were we?,” I say to the witness.
“I was getting barfed on,” she says with a toothy smile.
“right.”
Life’s Crazy™