— Oh, stop it, it’s not a big deal…
I bumped into Abby, our CFO, in the hallway when she showed off a cardboard box.
I asked her, “Did you bring the salary from the bank?”
“No, an old friend gifted it to me while we were stuck in traffic,” she replied, pointing at the box labeled “Medical Equipment.”
“And what’s he hinting at with that?” I wondered.
“Nothing at all,” she laughed. “We’ve known each other so long that I could gift him a deodorant, and he’d still be genuinely pleased. We met back in ’98. I was having major issues with my car at the time. I was young and a bit naive and ended up buying a Toyota through a dodgy dealer. The car had tampered VIN numbers, dodgy customs papers, and even some cops I knew promised to help but did nothing after taking money. The final straw was when I handed over my last couple of pounds to avoid the car being towed.
So, there I was with an expensive car that was only good for parts… I parked it in my driveway near the bins, sat there munching on some bagels, and cried, not wanting to face home like that. A knock on the window interrupted my breakdown. I rolled it down to see a guy with a shovel in a high-vis vest apologizing with a cheerful tone.
“Could you move back five meters? We’re about to pave the area in front of the bins. What’s up, though? Why the tears?”
I wanted to shoo him away and close the window to block out the smell of asphalt, but for some reason, I briefly shared my woes with him.
He responded, “Oh, come on, it’s not a real problem; the main thing is everyone’s healthy… You’re eating that bagel so well, mind sharing?”
Annoyed with myself for venting to a road worker, and his cheeky request, I mechanically handed over my bagel.
“And one more for my mate over there, if you can?” he asked.
I was stunned by his nerve, but I handed over another bagel, moved the car, and resumed my crying in peace. Ten minutes later, there was another knock.
I opened the window and asked sharply, “What now, more bagels?”
“No,” he said, “Got something to write with? Jot this down.”
He dictated a phone number from his notepad and added, “This is a home number, call after nine and say you’re from George. I’ll inform him. He’s a police chief; he might be able to save you.”
After saying goodbye, he vanished behind the steamy asphalt veil, leaving me bewildered. That evening, with nothing to lose, I called the number.
Just two days later, my car was officially registered with brand new plates! Even the traffic officers leapt out of their little booths to oblige me.
I spent a week tracking down George, the road worker, to thank him. Eventually, I found him on a nearby street. After expressing my gratitude with expensive chocolates, champagne, coffee, and such, I asked how he knew the chief so well that the chief would send greetings to him and his wife.
George then told me that six months ago, he was quite well-off, dealing in medical equipment, but the economic downturn obliterated his business. Now, he juggled three different jobs, working one day out of three, and even his wife, who had never worked a day in her life, started washing dishes in a school cafeteria.
All just to keep up appearances. They lived in a massive, luxury flat and refused to sell it despite the £900 a month required for communal charges and security. In front of their millionaire neighbors, they put on a brave face, living on just fifty pounds a month for the three of them (fortunate that their daughter attended a regular school).
Since then, George and I have become great family friends. We always celebrate New Year’s Eve together. Within two years, he bounced back even stronger than before.
Today, I was waiting at a traffic light when someone tapped on my roof. It was George in his SUV.
“Abby, want a Geiger counter?”
“Sure.”
“Here, go wild and treat yourself…”
