I Spied an Unfortunate Man

There's a certain stark beauty to the West Texas desertscape. It's a vast, sandy scene of tumbleweeds and shrubs dominated by rocks and boulders and occasional mountains rising up from the floor of desolation. Drivers headed west on Interstate 10 are drawn into bleak and barren stretches of isolation only broken by tiny communities offering scarcely more than topic for conversation.

Somewhere out there in the relentless heat, I spied an unfortunate man sitting in the middle of the seldom-traveled service road that ran parallel to the highway. Advancing drifts of sand obscured the edges on both sides of the road and threatened to altogether erase the existence of the road. Weeds rose from between the cracks of pavement negleted by cars and trucks.

The man in tattered clothes sat legs akimbo, like he participated in some Apache tribal ceremony. He was slumped over with the poor posture of the defeated. His head hung low. As if the man was no longer capable or willing to carry it, a nearby backpack sat askew.

I kept driving -- like every other would-be Samaritan speeding to their important destinations. The way I recall it, I released my foot from the accelerator. Part of me knew I needed to slow down, to stop, to offer help. But, I never even got far enough in the process to apply my foot to the brake pedal.

"Nah," I reasoned. "Could be a serial killer."

I sped away. At the time, my wife and infant daughter were awaiting my arrival in El Paso. I couldn't risk getting carved up by some homicidal lunatic as a result of my charitable goodness. Yet, I haven't really moved on. I see that guy in my dreams -- sometimes when I'm fully conscious and trying to displace that memory with something more innocuous.

And here's the bothersome part: sometimes when I relive that scene, I am the guy.