“Since a written work is not reality itself, and since art requires imagination, how does a writer tell a true story in an artful, honest manner?”¹

My list of enemies is not the exclusive club it used to be. You had to work hard to get in. Lies, sabotage, manipulation, betrayal—the brighter the blazing bridge between us, the higher your enemy status. The upper ranks were reserved for clever, reputation-targeting schemers. The calculating villains behind those fires would be furious if they knew how easily the newest members got in.

Mr. Shorty Shorts up the street earned his spot one sunny summer morning while I took my son for a walk. I slowed behind the stroller as we passed along his religiously maintained lawn. His car idled next to the house. He stared down at his phone, in no apparent hurry to move. I debated whether to rush to the other side of his driveway or wait until he left. Some people forget their keys when they leave the house, but I forgot to prepare an escape plan.

We’d had two encounters like this before. The first was a near-miss I brushed off. The second made me suspect his bad driving was a choice, not an accident. He hit the gas hard when backing out and didn’t signal or check for incoming traffic. But I had been in my own car those other times.

Mr. Shorty Shorts still hadn’t moved by the time we reached his mailbox, so we continued our stroll. He has a long driveway, long enough that we should have been fine to make it across even if he did start backing out right then. If he didn’t back out so aggressively.

His car moved the moment I stepped past the mailbox. Not trusting him for a moment, I cut straight across the street. It seemed like the most obvious safe place. The car would turn at the end of the driveway and continue back the way we had come just a smidge—enough for me to make eye contact and give him a solid glare—and then we’d both go about our days and have nothing to do with each other.

The car barely turned as it rolled into the street. The brake lights went on, then off, as he backed toward us. We were dead center behind his bumper. Impossible to be invisible. But he kept going.

I swerved the stroller into another neighbor’s grass, fighting the pull of gravity trying to drag us into a ditch. He lingered a moment. Long enough for me to take in the car’s position and angle.

Either he was a terrible driver, or he did it on purpose. It didn’t matter which. He was now my enemy.

Unlike the others on my list, Mr. Shorty Shorts is an active enemy. The founders of my list didn’t get there until long after the smoke cleared and we were likely never to cross paths again. But Mr. Shorty Shorts is just up the street. Any day could bring another encounter. Maybe that deserves a promotion to archenemy. My old enemies would be so disappointed.

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Attributions

1. Becky Broadyway and Doug Hesse, Creating Nonfiction: A Guide and Anthology (2009).