stop that thiefpublished: 2012-01-15
The car I borrowed gave up on me. I had left my celphone at home. I had gone to the beach. And then to the inlet for cargo ships. They loom up on the horizon and disappear into mainland, a canal swallows them, takes them away. It had been a crisp and sunny day.
Now suddenly it was dark and cold.
I asked two angry-white-men on Harley Davidsons whether I could use their phone. They were clad in black leathers. Heavy-set, scarred faces. We talked for a while. A polite conversation one has with strangers.
“Bye,” I said, after the care was fixed, “nice to meet you. And thank you.”
“No problem, glad to be of help.”
“Not that we’re ever entirely helpless in this country are we?”
After that, I went and did some groceries. On entering the supermarket an angry looking woman brushed by me. She was in black too, heave-set and scarred. She stared at the floor, and walked straight out in a determinate pace. Which is when I noticed the french-bread sticking out of her pocket. One of the cashiers noticed too. She jumped up and ran after her.
Stop that thief!
Leave it, is what I thought. Why would you care about a loaf of bread? She’s hungry.