& nbsp; [Transfer] The hurricane has ruined my mood completely. There are leaks on the ceiling of the gallery I am in charge of, and the floor is flooded. The exhibition cases are all dirty. There is no electricity or air conditioning. Moreover, there are over a hundred painters calling me to ask if their paintings have been damaged. To make matters worse, in order to deal with these issues, I have to drive a truck without air conditioning in this sweltering weather to Wil City in the rain.
It seems like fate is against me. My usually reliable truck broke down halfway because I forgot to refuel it. "How could you be so stupid? There's a needle on the dashboard specifically designed to remind you when the fuel tank is almost empty. It was right there, didn't you see it?" I scolded myself while coasting the car to the side of the road.
While I was lost in aimless thoughts, a motorcycle suddenly stopped beside me. This guy by the door seemed to pull me back into the 1960s. His windscreen and helmet were full of venomous snake drawings, and his exposed skin was covered in tattoos. He was dressed in a typical street thug outfit: thick leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots, and wherever he could hang chains, he did. His hair was incredibly long, and if not tied up, it might get tangled in the wheels. This big motorcycle looked exactly like the one from the hippies in the movies, with ostentatious handlebars, tilted seats, black, purple, green graffiti, and the oil tank painted like a skull head with green flames shooting out of its eyes, just like a "Beat Generation".
"What's wrong with your bike?" he said. The windscreen and helmet completely covered his face.
"Out of gas," I mumbled.
"I'll be right back." With that, he drove off.
After about fifteen minutes, he returned carrying a bucket of gasoline. When I offered to pay him, he replied, "We'll talk at the next gas station."
I started the truck and followed him for two or three miles through heavy rain to the gas station. When I tried to pay him again, he said, "Give the money to that guy inside. Are you good now?" I said yes. He said, "Goodbye, buddy!" Then he drove along Highway 24 towards Wil City, his long hair flying in the wind, and his Harley roaring as it splashed away.
I filled up with 24 dollars worth of gasoline. When I handed 30 dollars to the attendant inside, he told me, "You owe four dollars. The knight who came before you already paid 20 bucks, and he asked me to pass this message to you, 'Buddy, keep doing this.'"
I often think of that kind-hearted man burdened with snakes and chains, and his Harley with fiery green eyes. I will never judge a person by their appearance again.
As for those 20 dollars, I've already passed them on.
[Relevant theme articles: Must we work ourselves to death? Was she hugged, moved you? Having a 'foolish wife' is truly a blessing.]