There he was. Tall, dark, and handsome. Wearing wranglers
and cowboy boots. A real live hero standing right before my eyes. In a flash my
mind started spinning tales. I imagined him wearing a tin star, riding a black
stallion, stopping a stampede, fording a raging river.
Anything.
It didn’t matter what he was doing, because he was
a hero. And when a hero comes to life it makes no difference if he’s saving
women and children or taming the west.
Larger than life, this man stood before my eyes waiting for
me to figure out what his story was and place him a world where he is…man. And
I must move him from where I found him to where he needs to be because you
don’t find heroes standing at the end of the chip aisle in your local health
food store.
“Howdy, Ma’am. Let me rescue this bag of chips.” Just
doesn’t get it. Neither does, “Can I carry that gallon of organic milk for
you?”
I spoke not a word to my hero as I mentally transported him
to the wild west. I added a black Stetson to his dark hair, a pair of spurs to
his boots, placed him on a dusty street surrounded by outlaws and women in long
flowing dresses. And then I left him.
To his chips.
The last I saw of my hero, he was standing there debating
flavors. And I never once saw him tip his hat to a passing lady.
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