The Sheriff

As usual at our monthly staff meeting, two or three people were talking at once. A man walked in the door, smiled affably and passed our conference table in the front room to head down the hallway. He wore a modest, unwrinkled dress shirt and had neatly trimmed, greying hair. He spoke no greeting, but gestured toward the back of the offices, as if he had business there.

Conversation dwindled, and the eight of us stared at each other, raising eyebrows and puzzling over which one of us was expecting this visitor. Was he inspecting the HVAC system? Did someone call for a courier? Eyes turned toward our boss, who arose: "Can I help you?... Excuse me, can I help you?"

The man, whose eyes had seemed focused and sharp, began to explain that he was running for sheriff of the United States, that everyone wanted him to be sheriff and that he had a watch to prove it. His voice was clear, but he never quite finished any of his sentences.

I wanted desperately to hear everything, but he was on my periphery and N- began to talk to me directly, unnecessarily loudly, about something, a nonsequitur. I realized later that she may have been trying to protect the man from our undivided, baffled attention.

M- engaged him in conversation briefly, then managed to steer him toward the door. Some people wished him good luck on his campaign. He left the building and we could see him through the windows, walking toward the street.

The meeting went on. I still wonder why I didn't insist that we call the police. I still worry that someone was missing this man, or that someone nearly wrecked a car trying to avoid hitting him as he crossed the street (I imagined) oblivious to traffic signals. I wish I had not sat back in my chair, waiting for him to leave.