The Economics of Fate
Ninety-five degrees is too hot, Johnson thought. That’s six more degrees than I have years.
The late-spring heat rippled the air above the road as Johnson turned the sharp bend in his Chevy pickup, glad for his AC. Happy to be out of the soul-sucking sunshine.
He pressed the accelerator to power out of the curve when a small object in the opposite lane caught his attention. The size of his hand. Dome-shaped and dark green. Close to the ground. Barely moving. A turtle struggling on the blistering asphalt.
Johnson braked hard and pulled onto the gravel of the shoulder. Surprised by his impulsive action, he shook his head as he popped open his door and began to ease his old body from the driver’s seat—only to fall back into his truck when a speeding car whooshed past and startled him.
Careful, he thought.
He double-checked his rearview and side-view mirrors. This time he kept the door partially closed as he exited and pressed his back to the sidewall of his pickup, making sure he stayed out of the road. He checked both ways and both ways again before hobbling over to the struggling turtle. A young box turtle.
“You don’t belong out here, little one,” Johnson said, shaking his head. “But no worries. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”
Johnson grunted as he bent over and picked up the stranded turtle. He grunted again as he straightened to full height. Then he shuffled over to the edge of the road, carefully sidestepped down the embankment, and delivered the turtle to the slow waters at the river’s edge.
“There you go, buddy,” Johnson said as the turtle disappeared into deeper waters.
Unusually contemplative, Johnson stared at the still water. He gazed at his faded reflection as it rippled in the current for a handful of minutes before turning back to the road. The strange mood stuck with him as he returned to his truck. He shook his head as he stepped onto the pavement, wondering why the turtle had decided to cross the road on such a miserable day—or at all, for that matter.
Then again, Johnson thought as he crossed the road, it’s not like me to stop my truck for a turtle—or anything else. Fate’s fate. Choices is choices.
Once again, Johnson was startled by the sound of an oncoming vehicle. This time, it was the deep blare of a horn. The heavy screech and chatter of slipping tires. The unstoppable shadow of the Reaper’s chariot.
Fate’s fate, Johnson thought. Choices is choices.
Copyright © 2023 by W. C. Markarian
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