Redundancy
hit hard. Everything gone, being a somebody, the cars, the golfing
trips to Spain. But Carol walking out with the kids, now that hurt. Could life
get any worse?
“You have a good day” the warden at the
shelter for the homeless said.
“Yeah
whatever” I muttered.
The
wheelie bins stank of waste food, vomit and piss, but the old adage one man’s
trash is another’s treasure. The first two rubbish bags did not live up to
that, but the third, “Jeepers” I said as I closed the canvas bag and briskly
walked away. And then the dilemma started, the internal conflict. Hand it into
the police, or not.
The
weeks passed and despondency had set in. “Tony Johns?” I looked up from my cold
mug of tea.
“Yeah”
I said “What now?”
“If
you would come with us please” the policeman said.
The
detective inspector looked me in the eyes and said “The stolen property and
jewellery is very valuable, and also of great sentimentality too”
“So
what has that got to do with me?”
“Actually
quite a lot” said the detective inspector,
I
could not believe I was hearing this “You’ve got to be joking”
The
woman in the azure suit walked over from the window and smiled “No Tony he is
not joking, and yes it’s of great sentimental value.” I was starting to feel the
winds of change when she said “My family can’t thank you enough for handing in
our property and we would like you to accept this reward by way of thanks.”
The
reward enabled me to turn my life full circle, but I had no desire to be top
dog with a flash car. And so here I am just trying to give something back.
“Be
lucky” I said locking the door behind the last person to leave the shelter for
the day.
Word count 312.
Notes
A wheelie bin would be a dumpster in the USA
© Julian Clarke 2019
Linked to Poets United
