He walks the walk of the sherif in town. He lost his job due to violence. His own. Unforgiving, unapologetic. He would have beaten up that man again had he seen him in the streets. His streets. His town. His country. A sense of possession not akin to attachment but to a form of fatherly tenderness. You could see him look the city in the eye and say “don’t stay up too late”. Or take a residential building by the arm and firmly affirm “stay out of trouble”. He saw the windows breaking week after week. He saw the litter piling up on the side of the street. And here is a man to whom life is not a nod in front of a darker reality. To whom the number of alternative things to do is too little to ignore his single most pressing task. Nothing else can occupy the time of his mind. The space of his breath.
“The authentic human being is one of us who instinctively knows what he should not do, and, in addition, he will balk at doing it. He will refuse to do it, even if this brings down dread consequences to him and to those whom he loves. This, to me, is the ultimately heroic trait of ordinary people; they say no to the tyrant and they calmly take the consequences of this resistance. Their deeds may be small, and almost always unnoticed, unmarked by history. Their names are not remembered, nor did these authentic humans expect their names to be remembered. I see their authenticity in an odd way: not in their willingness to perform great heroic deeds but in their quiet refusals. In essence, they cannot be compelled to be what they are not.”
Here is the man who won’t stand still. The policeman who'll keep an eye on the town despite his suspension. The best policeman. "You can’t buy a man who’s sold on his town” he says. And the barman smiles as he pours a 12 year old Chivas Regal in his glass.