Karma

A parking ticket under my windshield wiper flaps in the welcome breeze of a 99 degree day on the Colorado prairie. I’ve failed to return my faculty/staff pass to its home on the rearview mirror so the campus cops have nailed me. Last week we carted a 1980s garage sale desk 40 miles to my office (on the Sabbath) because the University can only afford a 1960s desk (with packing tape to hold the drawers together) and they have the nerve to give me a parking ticket. Where’s the karmic justice?

I hit the road and after five miles the Subaru check engine light switches on. “Tank” is fussy whenever the mercury shoots above 90 but I ignore my car’s demands. We’re all hot out here. But soon the gas gauge dances precariously close to “E”, and, slightly defeated, I pull off to refill Tank.

Outside the station, a college-age girl in shorts and a white halter top shares a private joke with her lanky boyfriend while leaning against a shiny new SUV. The car looks bloated, like it just demolished an entire Pulcinella’s pizza. Tank and I shoot a disdainful look in their direction.

Back in the car, I head North on I-25 when a rock promptly smacks my new windshield. A tiny star pattern now clouds the view. Apparently the karmic justice I summoned earlier has arrived.