Peter, Paul and Mary
We were driving down the road in some old Buick that surely had seen better days. A few meters ahead of us I spotted a hand bag.
“This may just be my lucky day”, I thought to myself.
Surely she hadn’t seen that old bag. No way. Suddenly though she turned the wheel, the car changed lanes, and the door on her side was now directly next to the hand bag.
Had we just carried on as usual, it would have been me to first reach out my hand to grab the bag.
The door opened, a swift movement picking up the bag, she then turned the car sideways so as to move back to our dedicated lane.
As we reached a quieter part of Port Huron, she slowed down. Inside, I was angry. Angry how she would just take everything, and surely keep it.
Her whithering hand opened the clutch and reached inside. It was promptly followed by an excruciating shriek.
“Oh, shit”, she yelled, about to hand me that prized find. I didn’t reach out to take it from her, though. Looking at her, I saw in horror what had happened. Someone had put cat poo in that bag. It had been a trap, snapped shut at her greed.
Her fingers were full of, well, oh, shit.
“Serves her right”, I again thought to myself.
“Hand me that towel, quick! It’s so disgusting”, her demanding tone never changed. Even now, with shit on her hands, she saw herself as a right queen. It struck me how some people were under such illusion, imagining themselves to truly be better than others.
As I reached back for the towel, I pictured her dirty hands begging for a bowel of soup, somewhere, as a homeless person.
“No one is born homeless”, I thought, “and no one is save from calamity, ever.”
I handed her the towel and she looked at me condescendingly, still waving that dreaded bag before my eyes.
Finally I took it off her and threw it out of the window, for someone else’s scenario of justice to play out, just that little bit further down the road.