“I’m fine sir, thank you.” I’d like him to leave, so I figure I’ll be nice. And if that doesn’t work…
“Are you sure? You look pretty banged up?” He’s right, I am pretty banged up. I look down at the emblem sewn into my shoe as I reach for the point on my jaw that is three inches, my left, of my upper lip. I run my finger downward revealing a fairly deep gash near my chin. The jagged edges are rough and slick with blood, and as my fingertip reaches the end of the gash, the skin splits a bit more and the bleeding gains new life. He puts his hand on my shoulder, “What the hell happened?” Although there was no formal introduction, his sewn-on name-tag indicates that this mans’ name is Phillip. He is tall with dark brown hair and brown eyes that seem to fade the more I look at them. Below his left eye is a wide, crooked scar, which somehow, is familiar to me. I let the thought float on as I divert my attention to getting Phillip as far away from my backseat as possible.“What the hell happened?”
“Fucking hit-n-run man,” I say, “. Probably some damn kids, ya know?” I feel bad blaming this one on the kids, but the Fifth Amendment is something I hold close to my heart. “I’ll be fine, just a few scratches.” He takes his hand off my shoulder and walks towards the back of the car, further assessing the damage. He gives the flattened rear tire a kick before kneeling down and flicking out the last few pieces of crackled plastic from the drivers’ side taillight. When he stands again, I am up in his face. He looks me in the eye, and once again, I fixate on the scar, on the familiarity, I have with this supposed stranger. He seems puzzled at my actions and takes a step sideways. Get the fuck out of here, Phillip.
In an attempt to change the mood to a more neutral state, he smiles. “She’ll be just fine,” he says, “nothing major.”
“Ahh thanks, I wouldn’t know. Don’t know a damn thing about cars.” His face scrunches a bit as if he doesn’t quite believe me. He turns from me and walks to the base of an old oak tree. Turning back around, he drops to a sitting position and plants himself against the trunk, placing his hands on his knees. He lets out a long breath; the kind of breath where one puffs his cheeks and slowly blows the air through his lips. A deliberate, sarcastic breath whose sole purpose, is to pass judgment. “Is there a problem, Phillip?” I ask, as kindly as possible.
