He Pointed His Gun at My Nose
I didn’t mean nuthin, honest!
I really meant well. On the interstate heading to the Worcester (MA) State Hospital, bringing a sandwich to a young cousin overcoming substance addiction. I knew I had to get there before 8 p.m. closing and it was going to be close. Wintertime and dark and I was in a big car with a defective rear light, driving way over the speed limit (I was really trying to do good) and there was the flashing blue light. The State Police officer took my papers back to the cruiser to write the ticket and I decided to try to charm him with sweet talk. Not a good idea. I left my car and approached the cruiser with my hands folded behind my back, trying to effect the ‘cat that got caught with the canary’ posture, but the officer, unable to see my hands became concerned. As I approached the window of the cruiser, all I could see was a monstrous handgun pointing at my nose. My hands flew upwards as I shouted a prayer to deity. The officer got out of the cruiser, pushed me over the car’s hood, made sure I was unarmed, after which he, unnecessarily, apologized for drawing his weapon and proceeded to write the speeding ticket.
Well, I was young, naïve, inexperienced, and thankfully, unhurt. But I could so easily been killed because of my own stupidity. That was about forty years ago and ever after, when stopped by the police I always: 1. Drive the car well off the road. 2. Lower the window. 3. Turn off the ignition. 4. Rest both hands high up on the steering wheel, await instruction and never try to con the officer. They’ve heard it all and respect truth and candor.
Ever after, although I continued to speed, I was never abused by the police. All they want is the respect to which they’re entitled and often will give you a break when appropriate.
Hal Fishbein
October 2007
The Time I Knew I Knew God
There was a time my business was doing well. It was growing up a storm. The Sr. Vice President, and I, with unrealistic visions of grandeur, decided to take flying lessons to better serve our locations thru-ought New England.
The Norwood, Massachusetts’s airport did not have commercial airline service. It specialized in private planes, the flying school and little else. With only one runway and no tower, planes were permitted to take off and land at will. Safety was the responsibility of the pilot, his eyes, ears, intelligence and will to live. For that matter, I’m not sure ears were of much help.
Flying instruction was a heavenly (no pun intended) experience. When flying above the clouds a bright sun would create a circular rainbow around the plane’s shadow, visible on the clouds below, a celestial sight viewed by few.
Once, while flying straight and level, I noticed a small plane well off to the right, heading our way. I didn’t think much about it. The instructor, a seasoned experienced professional, was sitting to my left and, of course, knew what he was doing. It appeared the plane was continuing on course with potential for collision at which time I deigned to bring it to the instructor’s attention. “By the way, did you happen to notice the plane…†With that he grabbed the controls, pointed the plane skyward, gunned the engine, and shouted, “Where did that son-of-a-bitch come from?†It then occurred to me, this flying stuff was serious.
Finally, It was solo time. The instructor, sitting as close as conjoined twins, saw me take off and land scores of times and had confidence in me. I knew I was ready. And then, there I was, alone at the foot of the runway. I pushed the throttle all the way using full engine power. ‘The little single engine trainer, sounded like the roar of a mighty jet and just before the runway disappeared I was airborne. Yippee! What a thrill! I was Superman, more powerful than a locomotive.
I took the prescribed three turns around the airport and prepared to land. Only then did it occur to me: Nobody, but nobody on this planet, but me, was going to put the plane back on the ground. I verbalized the briefest prayer and then I knew I knew God.
Right after that came my first gout attack and, coincidentally, a softening of the business climate and I never flew again. But ever after I was in that select fraternity of those who soloed. It was worth every dime.
Hal Fishbein
October 2007
2 comments:
Hal: I like the flow of your writing in the three recent pieces. The transitions of ideas and situations are easy to follow, almost conversational, a style dominant in all your works to date. = Frank
Hal--
Regarding, "He Pointed His Gun. . . "--you did an excellent job with details. I think you did a good job with placing the reader in a concrete time and place.
What a scary moment you wrote about. It's this moment where it seems like you've done a non-threatening thing, but because you didn't know the etiquette and proper procedure in an ticket stop, you could have gotten really hurt. It made me think about how important it was to know those things explicitly--I don't know how or when I was taught what to do when pulled over, but I know that one time, I leaned over to get the registration and the officer screamed at me to keep my hands on the dash.
You weren't being stupid, you just didn't know what to do. I really liked it and I liked your four rules or steps at the end.
Regarding, "The Time I Knew. . . ," what an enjoyable piece! I really like that moment where you write about what you see--it allows the reader to see what only someone in that position would be able to see.
The line about how nobody but you would land that plane--that seems like a moment that comes in everyone's life--and something that any reader could relate to, that moment when we have to take responsibility for our own lives.
I'm interested in this line: I verbalized the briefest prayer and then I knew I knew God.
I'd love to read you describe what you mean by that--that feeling of knowing God.
Great work!
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