I drove through the narrow and bumpy road to get to my university carpark, when a car on the opposite lane began to slow down and a hand holding a parking ticket protruded from the window. I slowed down my car, not minding the cars behind me which was a silly thing to do because some drivers enjoy rear-ending other cars to emphasise their lack of driving skills, and lo and behold, it was my friend Lucy* from art class. She beamed a smile and I beamed one back, and said, "thanks love!" It was all I could say because I did not want my possible rear-enders to become upset with me.
Not thinking much about the kind gesture besides the fact that maybe Lucy recognised me from afar and had decided to pass on her cigarette-smelling ticket, I drove on and boasted to my mother, my dear passenger and escort to my re-enrolment session, how every person that I had met in that certain art class were sensational, and Lucy had just as well proven this. My mother just smiled briefly and continued to hold on for her dear life, just because I was driving. And so I drove on, avoiding the speed humps that I could avoid, and riding those that carefully held down the sidewalk, forcing me to ride them.
I reached two carparks behind the university, both of which were full. I found one carpark, but it was in a permit zone. I was about to park when an old man wearing a cowboy hat walked around the car next to me. I freaked out and drove off thinking it was a parking inspector that had come around to hand me some bad karma, however it just turned out that this little old man was an innocent little old man wielding a loaf of bread rather than a fining machine. Despite all the times that I preach against the use of stereotypes, there I was applying stereotypes.
Regardless, though, I thought that walking an extra three minutes would not harm me, so I parked in a zone where Lucy's ticket was totally acceptable. My mother and I then went on our ten minute endeavour to the ninth building, where I re-enrolled. Upon returning back to our vehicle afterwards, an old man approached me and asked me for my ticket, because the ticket machine was down.
"Here mate, my friend gave me it so I will pass it on to you!"
"Thanks love!" he replied. "I hope you win the Tattslotto!"
I was speechless. No stranger has ever had high hopes as such for me. If anything, they should keep those high hopes for themselves. He didn't, though. Because of my good deed after Lucy's good deed, this old man gave me back a possible dream of his, wishing it to be mine, and I am ever so thankful. I will go for the lotto tomorrow, and place my lucky number seven somehow, I will get my father to do it because I cannot gamble to save my life, and I will wish for the best, just because of this old man. I mean, he could have said other things, like "have a good day!" or "I hope you don't end up getting rear-ended by unskilled drivers!" But instead, he wished me luck for the lottery.
This is interesting because today is also my name day. I was named after Saint Nicholas, who is known today as Santa Clause, a nice old man who had a reputation for secret gift-giving. Perhaps my gift from today was to win the lottery tomorrow. Or perhaps I won't win at all, and it was only a hopeful line given to me for richness in things other than money, like love or happiness.
Either way, I was happy that Lucy made my day. Today is a killstreak of happiness and whether or not I win the lottery tomorrow, I will continue performing in good deeds. Thank you, Karma. And thank you, Lucy. And if I win tomorrow, thank you, strange old man. But thank you regardless, because of the hope you have given me and the happiness you have reignited within me.
P.s: Look at how many words this essay has amounted to, disregarding this note:
* I am unsure that is her name, but I think it is. She is tall, slender and has a French petite figure, and a smile of a Spaniard.
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