"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as
sweet." Juliet Capulet, Romeo and Juliet
Nose pressed to my iPhone, texting that I had completed my errands and was headed home. I'm middle-aged, gray - nondescript. Tommy Bahama silk shirt (blue and gold palm fronds, yellow background), matching turquoise earring, cargo shorts and flip-flops. Not stylin', exactly, but a stretch of sand and a boat drink are all that would complete the snowbird affect.
Of course, I turn and look. A friend from work.
I have taken pains to explain to officer colleagues I consider away-from-work friends that they need not address me by title when we are, well, away from work. Blue uniform, gun and...the badge on the bike uniforms is a patch, but never mind. I made up that guy out of necessity. I hear him barking orders, see the tools of his trade (rifle, plate carrier, Kevlar helmet) and marvel at my creation. He is, I suppose, Sergeant Hyde to my Grandpa Jekyll. I leave him at work. That's also where I leave the chevrons.
Shy, reserved, introverted real me would rather read on the back porch. My man purse may be patched "That Guy" but I'm not. I'm the invisible, quiet little fellow attractive women trip over not to get my attention, but because I'd have to generate a nuclear explosion to compensate for my abject ordinariness.
"Hey, Sarge." I didn't even hesitate. Maybe it was because I recognized her voice. Yeah, that's it.
I am totally not that guy