August 12, 2015 8:26 AM
I awoke last night to see, out my darkly tinted windows, a man bent over and messing with the side of my van. He had backed his pickup truck in next to mine and had left his driver’s side door open to—I was certain—shield his nefarious activities from being viewed by guests of the hotel.
As I was putting on my pants with the intention of politely asking him what he was doing, he apparently heard me moving around inside because he immediately hopped in his truck and sped away.
The fleeting me—the contraction that is required for me to function in this world—was concerned he was stealing gas or hubcaps or wheel lugs, but I found no evidence of anything wrong: the lugs were all tight, the hubcaps all there, the gas cap on and the cover closed (plus no gas smell or stains around the inlet or on the ground).
Knowing I wouldn’t get any sleep if I stayed there, I moved a quarter mile to a Walmart parking lot.
I awoke a few hours later, the sky just beginning to lighten, as an SUV pulled up next to me but parked crossways to the slots and with half of the vehicle in the roadway. Soon a small, commercial truck started looking for a place nearby to park (there were at least two million empty slots in the lot that early in the morning) and kept circling around and backing up and trying various spots until he finally settled on one.
My mind was curious and—still thinking about the guy messing with my van earlier—came up with a dozen different (and all very dark and cynical) theories about what these anonymous drivers were up to.
A few moments later, a small bus pulls in directly behind me and securely blocks the van in and the fleeting me realized all at once that the FBI has mistaken me for some armed and dangerous outlaw. Last night, the agent in the pickup truck put a GPS tracker in my wheel well and now they have me perfectly blocked in with two other teams (the SUV and commercial truck) perfectly positioned to shoot me dead should I put up any resistance.
Just then, a tall man hops out of the passenger side of the SUV wearing a dark blue shirt with some bright yellow lettering that I can’t quite read, and hurries toward my van.
As he boards the transit bus parked behind me, I make out “Goodwill” on his blue shirt and I, the Eternal, realize that he is mentally impaired and his loving mother parked that curious way just so the transit bus driver would be able to see them and that her son needed to be picked up (just as he does most days). As my heart opened to this beautiful scene of love between a mother and her disabled son (and the understanding and compassion of the bus driver), I, the Eternal, decided the pickup truck driver last night had simply had a couple drinks too many and—thinking he was going to get sick—used my van for both some privacy and to steady himself just in case he did.
Of course, as I type this, I know I don’t know the truth.
But I prefer my Eternal viewpoint to the fleeting me’s one.
It's Time To Wake Up
Mystical Oneness and the Nine Aspects of Being is a step-by-step guide to enlightenment and beyond.
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