Luck


Every so often as I drive to work, I see a stocky-looking guy holding a large cup of coffee, rocking back and forth, listening to his radio, wearing a sandwich board advertising a local plumber.

I’ve seen him in the summer. I’ve seen him in the fall. I’ve seen him in the rain as well as the sunshine, and I think, “I’m lucky. I could be that guy.”

But how bad is his life? Is it bad at all? I really don’t know. He seems blissful enough. But what is bliss? Does it really matter? Do I even have the right to pity the man?

I could, of course, park my car and talk to him, and find out who he is and what he does, and why does he wear that sandwich board? How does he like his coffee? What does he listen to on his radio? What songs does he sing when he does a little dance there on the corner?

But that would mean stepping out of the safe and predictable pattern of my existence…

…which is at least worth a try.

 

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