The Christmas Shoppers
The chill wind was blowing the last few Christmas shoppers off Cherry Street. I was restocking the shelves with shoes and trying to stay near the heater at the center of the store. Johnson was playing with the cash register tape at the front counter. Mr. Pullum, the manager, was back in his office, doing whatever shoe store managers do.
The door opened and the wind blew a woman and man through. The woman wore a navy blue wool coat and high heels. The man had on a uniform but it was unlike any uniform I'd ever seen. It had trousers the color of the midnight sky, with a gold stripe down each leg; a scarlet coat with gold braid and a chest full of medals and multicolored ribbons; big, gold sergeant stripes that wrapped all the way around his big arms. I could see the reflection off the brass insignia on his collar but I couldn't read it from where I was. A black billed cap was pulled low over his eyes. He was a black man, ramrod straight, six foot four, immaculate; his bearing complimented the uniform
Johnson helped the woman select a pair of girl's Mary Janes while I pretended to put up shoes.
"That'll be $7.95." While he counted out her change he looked at the man. "What branch of the service are you in, Sergeant?"
"I'm in the Space Patrol," the man replied in a voice like a dump truck unloading four yards of gravel.
Johnson mulled that over, "I'll bet it's scary to be up there in one of them things goin' that fast."
"Naw, you're goin' so fast you can't even tell you're movin'."
The couple exited the store and, as the chill wind blew the door closed, they turned left, towards the train terminal at the bottom of Cherry Street.
Space Patrolmen being rare in Macon, GA, in 1955, I followed out the door to watch them down the street.
Cherry Street was deserted.
Every Christmas I think about them and wonder where they were from . . . Or when.