The Moment On The Sidewalk
A man in a mud-caked, military-style jacket stands against a brick wall. His head is bowed, and droplets of dark sludge drip from his hair onto his collar. He watches the red convertible cruise slowly through the busy city intersection.
A woman stands up in the back seat of the red car. She holds a plastic bowl of salad high above her head. With a flick of her wrists, she tips the contents over the side of the vehicle. The lettuce, dressing, and chopped vegetables tumble through the air, coating the man’s shoulders and chest.
The man remains standing, his hands at his sides, as the debris clings to his shirt. The occupants of the car lean back against their leather seats. They lean their heads together, their mouths opening wide as they share a look, their shoulders shaking with rhythmic movement.
The red car begins to pull away into the flow of traffic. The man on the sidewalk sinks slowly, sliding down the brick wall until he is sitting on the pavement. He stares down at his lap, where bits of greens and dressing settle into the fabric of his pants.
The Turn Of The Tide
The red convertible glides down the open lane of the city street. The man in the driver’s seat turns his head toward the passenger. Both individuals have their mouths open, teeth visible, as they continue to react to the scene they just left behind.
Suddenly, the hum of the engine is overtaken by the deep, throaty rumble of motorcycle exhaust. A line of riders in black leather jackets maneuvers into the lane directly in front of the car. The lead motorcycle pulls alongside the driver’s door, effectively blocking the path forward.
More riders fill the space behind and to the sides of the convertible, turning the red car into a small island surrounded by heavy bikes. The woman in the passenger seat twists her body, her hands gripping the edges of her seat as she glances at the line of riders.
The driver grips the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening against the dark leather. He stares straight ahead, the movement of his jaw visible through his sunglasses. The surrounding traffic slows to a crawl as the group of motorcycles holds their position in the middle of the road.
The Exchange In Traffic
A rider in a black leather vest and helmet pulls up alongside the passenger side of the car. She holds a large bowl filled with debris, the same color and consistency of what was dumped earlier. She lifts the bowl over her head, tilting the rim toward the center of the convertible.
The mixture slides off the plate and cascades directly into the cabin. It lands squarely on the shoulders and laps of the two people sitting in the front seats. The woman in the car lets out a sharp sound, her hands flying to her head as she tries to wipe the liquid from her face.
The driver and the woman sit perfectly still, covered in the mess that now fills the footwell and clings to their clothing. Their mouths are agape, staring at the empty bowl in the biker’s hands. The biker keeps her grip on the bowl, looking down into the vehicle before pulling her hand back.
The riders remain positioned around the car, engines idling in a steady rhythm. The occupants of the red car look down at their clothes, the light reflecting off the wet spots on their white shirts and dresses. The wind blows through the car, cooling the mixture as it settles into the seams of their seats.
The Final Image
The red convertible sits dead center in the lane, completely surrounded by the black motorcycles. The camera pans across the interior of the car, showing the remnants of the food coating the dashboard and the laps of the two passengers. The driver keeps his eyes fixed firmly ahead, his jaw locked, while the woman beside him stares at her hands, which are still covered in the wet debris.
Send this to someone who needs to see that what goes around comes around. It is a reminder that actions have direct consequences.