Corralling Carts

I would have felt bad for the guy if I hadn't been laughing so hard. In fact, I did feel bad. At first.

I was sitting in the parking lot at Krogers, as I often do on a Thursday night, talking on the phone when a rolling shopping cart caught my eye. It was rolling toward a small, blue pickup truck where a guy was waiting for someone. It wasn't rolling fast, and it didn't roll far. It did roll into the rear wheel well. Not “well” as in it hit the wheel good, but “well” as in it hit the well where the wheel set.

Well, that wasn't very well put. It hit the truck.

The guy was none too happy. He got out to move the cart across an empty parking spot, muttering what I am reasonably certain were not sweet words for the person who put the cart where it could roll, then he slammed back into his truck.

He had barely hit the seat when the cart started rolling again. Towards his truck. Into the front of his truck.

Forgive me, but I started laughing. The guy had become the person he had been cursing.

I told my sister, who was on the other end of the line (which is not an actual line since we were using cell phones, so I suppose she was on the other end of a radio wave, which just doesn't have the same class as saying “line”), and she started laughing. This of course caused me to laugh more, which by this point was well beyond the level of humor of the actual event. I had crossed from laughing at the plight of the guy with the cart into laughing at the guy. Not nice.

Particularly since I could have been that guy. I have been that guy.

Most recently, it was while driving.

I was motoring down the highway, minding my own business and totally focused on my driving responsibilities while I made a phone call, when the woman in the next lane decided she liked my lane better. She started over. I was slightly behind her and hit my breaks to keep from trading paint. I shook my head and thought the kindest thought I could at that moment-“You idiot.” Notice, I did not use an exclamation point. Very nice of me, I thought.

A few weeks later I was tooling down the interstate, totally focused on my driving again with my phone in my hand, when I came upon a slower vehicle in my lane. Rather inconsiderate of the driver to make me change lanes, but being the nice, considerate guy I am, I glanced in my side mirror and slid past him.

As I did, something in my rear view mirror caught my eye. A car. A very close car. A Mercedes. I know it was a Mercedes because the Mercedes emblem on its grill filled my rear view mirror. Yes, I had become the idiot driver switching lanes. Of course, this instance was much different from the one a few weeks earlier. This was a fluke, a blind spot, a mistake anyone could make.

After all, this time I was the idiot.