Eric Fomley

But when I got out of the car and went to the window, I saw a middle-aged looking man staring straight ahead and what looked like a shit ton of sweat pouring down his face.

Good afternoon, sir.

Can I see your license and registration?

He jumped like he didn't know I'd been there.

Uh, yeah, uh.

He reached for the glove compartment.

His hands were shaking, more than what I thought might be nervousness.

You all right there, buddy?

I asked.

Inside I was groaning because I really didn't want this to turn into a drug stop or some other bullshit.

It was 1.32 in the afternoon and shift end time was 2.

I was hoping to be home on the couch catching SportsCenter with a beer, not dealing with a strung out man who was too big for the car he was driving.

He fumbled with the papers in the glove compartment and handed me a crumpled registration.

Then he snagged his license from his wallet in his back pocket and gave it to me.

The names matched, Robert Pierce, born in 1972 from here in Granville.

You blew the stop sign back there.

Did you mean to do that?

He looked shocked at the suggestion and gave me a sort of half laugh.

Sorry, didn't mean to.

I nodded.