Hergest Ridge

In the lobby, I skipped checking the mailbox.

I arrived at my meeting address with a few minutes to spare, an empty parking spot right at the front door. The spot was the kind that stays free for a minute or two at a time, literally steps away from the high rise entrance. Parking meter still had a few minutes on it, a much needed commodity due to lack of proper coinage on my part. The car was left with 0:24 flashing on it.

With the 10 minute meeting due in 5 minutes, things were going to be tight. That was the forecast.

“You’re a Farmer, and that’s the type of people we are looking for”.

Jeff sat across of me at his desk on the 26th floor, above an intersection where movie studios like to shoot when they need a “busy New York scene” while filming in Canada.

Suddenly it all clicked into place.

A few days ago I had watched an episode of Lost. In it, a character explains a sweat-lodge to another. About how it can help you find who you are; a Hunter or a Farmer. At the time I wondered if I was either, but here, high above the ground with the answer given to me by a near stranger, it all made sense.

It’s been 40 minutes since the car was left at the meter. When I came out of the elevator, I knew it hadn’t been towed - I could see it through the stained glass - but the question of a ticket was still to be answered.

Empty handed, I was sitting in the car, the door shut. A few meters away, a man in a uniform was heading my way. Another 15 seconds, and I’d be waiting for him to write me a ticket.

When I was getting out of the car back at my apartment, I noticed a golden coin in the door of the car. It was sitting in the little door handle with a bottom, a place where I often toss in my pennies. Well, I’ll be damned! Where was this little coin when I was looking to feed the hungry meter? It didn’t matter.

Some things couldn’t turn out better if I had tried to plan for it. Today, it seems to have all started with the conscious decision not to waste precious seconds checking what in the end turned out to be an empty mailbox. If you ask me, I’d call it a micro chaos theory unfolded.