My colleagues entered the bank. I stayed in the front seat of the SUV, happy for the break. In front of me a soldier, clad in dark khaki green from the beret on his head down to the black of his boots, casually talked to the bank security guard. The solider bent over to examine a speck on his boots. He stood and produced some shoe polish and a rag and bent back over to buff his shoes. I noticed, with some alarm, the rifle which was slung over his shoulder was now pointing directly at me. I immediately envisioned the newspaper headline “Soldier Discharged after Gun Discharged in Fatal Freak Accident.” I stared at the gun. It looked like maybe there was a safety on it. Perhaps? I know nothing about guns. I leaned to one side, out of range of the gun. The solider shifted to polish the other shoe. I was in the line of fire once again. I weighed my paranoia against the likelihood this unlikely event would actually occur. Paranoia won out. I dropped to the floorboard of the car, clearly out of range of the rifle. My colleagues returned to the car, perplexed. “What are you doing?” I sat up. “Oh, nothing. Just thought I dropped something on the floor.” I was quite relieved to see the soldier standing upright, gun pointing at the ground.

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