The world’s split, as it always does, between compassion and judgment, especially when we don’t know someone’s story. Harris remained silent. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath.
He had faced far worse situations than this. In places far more dangerous, with consequences far more serious. But that was over fifty years ago.
Now he was just another old man, being humiliated in public. Across the street at the gas station, the owner Marcus stopped wiping down the fuel pump. A Gulf War veteran, fifty-eight years old, he recognized James Harris immediately.
Harris had been filling up at that station for fifteen years. Always polite, always on time with his payments, always with a kind word for Marcus. Marcus saw the humiliation unfolding and felt his blood boil.
He grabbed the phone and dialed the nearby military base at Fort Carson. Hello, this is Marcus Williams. I need to speak with an officer on duty.
It’s urgent. Back across the street, things were getting worse. Officer Johnson was now raising her voice, clearly irritated by Harris’ silence.
Sir, you’re going to have to come with us to the station. Harris finally spoke, his voice calm and low. And what for? For inappropriate behavior and failure to properly respond to a law enforcement officer.
She paused then added, Also, you need a medical evaluation before even thinking about riding that motorcycle again. Harris looked at with the same patience he’d once used to train hundreds of young soldiers. The same kind of patience he’d shown eighteen-year-old recruits who arrived at boot camp thinking they already knew everything about life.
Ava, let me try, said Lopez. Mr. Harris, you understand our concern, right? A man your age, riding a bike like that, it could be dangerous. For who? For you, for other drivers.
I’ve been riding for sixty-five years, I’ve never caused an accident. Yeah, but now it’s different. Slower reflexes, impaired vision.
Harris could have explained that his reflexes were tested six months ago during his annual medical check, that he exercises every day, that his coordination is better than most younger men’s. He could have said all that. But he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
On the phone with the base, Marcus explained the situation. We’ve got a fellow veteran being disrespected by local police, James Harris, eighty-two years old. I’ve known him for fifteen years.
He’s an honest man being humiliated in public just for riding his bike. The officer on the other end of the line suddenly changed his tone. Did you say James Harris? Hold on a second.
A moment later. Mr. Williams, keep your eyes on the situation. We’re sending a unit right now.
Do not let them do anything to Colonel Harris until we arrive. Colonel. I can’t give you details over the phone, but we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
The call ended. Marcus stepped closer to the road, his heart pounding. Colonel.
James had never mentioned his military rank. Across the street, the situation reached a whole new level of absurdity. Officer Johnson had now decided Harris needed to be taken in for a psychiatric evaluation.
Mr. Harris, I’m going to need you to get in the vehicle. We’re going to the hospital for an evaluation. I’m not going.
What do you mean you’re not going? This isn’t a request. It’s an order. Based on what law? Johnson hesitated.