Strange Encounter

Saturday has always been my favourite day; looking forward to it can, therefore, be an obsession that borders on the absurd. I know this may seem childish but it has something to do with the fact that being the first day of the weekend, I can do whatever I like and still stay long in bed on Sunday. There is also the added joy that there is nobody breathing down my neck.

This obsessive yearning for Saturday-as the story you are about to read will show- has further revealed an inward looking and rebellious side to my nature that I’ve never known. Apart from scoring poorly in meeting work deadlines, my output during the week is appalling. I have this unreasonable feeling that the conditions under which I work are stressful, and the demands on me are untenable.

As a result I’m known as gloomy Folksy Joe in the office. Folksy, I suppose because that is really who I’m, more so at home. At the office I’m always on about something; if is not the poor weather I complain about, it is the heating system or always being the one to do the unpleasant chores.

Last Saturday was one of those days that you wake up feeling fine and anticipating a great time, only for things to end up going haywire. After imagining (or psyching myself to believe) I could go jogging in the cold weather only to be stopped by a drizzle, I still couldn't imagine staying indoors the whole day.

So at around 2.15 pm when it is relatively clear, I decide to walk to Yalkriver town centre to do some shopping, and to deposit a cheque at the local Bank. I have only walked a couple of yards from 61 Yalkriver road where I reside, when a weather beaten red Ford Mondeo stops right next to me. Although Yalkriver road is on the M6, our section of the road is much quieter and most folks here know me. So when a man who speaks English with a strong foreign accent opens his car window, and asks if I could help him reach a certain address I think nothing about it.

Under normal circumstances, if I know the direction of an address, I would point the inquirer to that particular direction and continue on my way. But this is no ordinary encounter; the man who claims that he speaks only German well, has two female passengers in the back seat and a small boy. Pointing to the fuel gauge which is in the red, he says that if he misses the address and run out of fuel, he is done!

An inner voice warns me that this could be a story, but my humanity can't help feeling pity for the hungry and tired looking women and child at the back. Thinking that if I want to reach the Bank before 4.30pm (when it closes), I will have to abandon these people and go my way. However, I can't think of a more humane way of doing it, and have to think very fast. So I do the most logical thing: I get into his car and ask him to drive to the nearest teller-machine, where I withdraw twenty pounds which I hand to him. I figure that he’ll pump in ten pounds worth of fuel and buy snacks with the balance. But he does the most bizarre thing: he stretches out his hand right to shake mine, thanks me and drives away.

Perplexed and a little annoyed that I’d just fallen prey to a trickster, I don’t realise that he has actually left something in my hand. When I do, my first instinct is to throw it away in anger, but immediately realise that it is metallic. It could hurt someone on the busy street and add more misery in an unnecessary lawsuit.

Curious to discover what it is, I open my palm to find the most beautiful decorated ring I’ve ever seen; gold coloured. More confused now than angry, I wonder why someone would want to drive around playing pranks on total strangers with a wedding ring. I slowly and dejectedly walk back to my house, all my plans to go to Yalkriver town cancelled.
......................................................................................................................................................
‘Did you say that he never said anything else, Joe?’ Walter Salinger of Glitz Jewels, asked in wonder.

‘Nothing and I can swear that if anyone asked me to describe his face, or his car registration numbers I’ll score zero’, I limply answered.

‘Well believe me, this is an eighteen karat gold ring’, He announced triumphantly, ‘From the decoration, it is easy to tell how special it was to the owner.’

‘What do you advise me to do?’ I inquired.

‘Well if it was stolen, the owner would soon make an announcement on the radio or the papers’, He chimed in, ‘If there is nothing in three weeks, you may count yourself lucky, for shaking the hand of Azure the goddess of precious stones.’

I shake my head in wonder, still dazed at the unusual encounter the previous Saturday, which now seemed like a dream.