Balance (500 Words short story project, January 17, 2019)

The cosmos requires balance. For all good, there must be equal evil. For all joy, there must be equal sorrow. Every time you have an amazing day — you find $5 in your pocket, you hit every green light, you get that big promotion — someone else is having an equally awful day — they get a parking ticket, or a pink slip, or that nasty sore throat that’s been going around. It steals a bit of the sweetness from every positive event, knowing that it’s matched by something negative, something hard. And it isn’t great knowing that tomorrow it might be your turn to have that garbage day when you forget your wallet on the train or a bird takes a crap on you. Or your dog dies. Or you get that cancer diagnosis. Oh, yes. Your turn is coming, and mine.

I had just come off a doozy of a bad day — stepped in a deep puddle in my favorite shoes while running to catch a bus I still missed — and was hoping to spend the rest of my evening drying out and eating a not-too-disgusting microwave meal for one when a strange number popped up on my phone.

Like most sane adults, I don’t answer phone calls like that. I let them go to voicemail, because they’re almost always telemarketers or collections agencies or robocalls reminding me about my upcoming physical exam. I don’t have time for that.

But I had been thinking a lot lately about my theory of cosmic balance, and how bad my day had already been. Whoever was calling, I figured I’d better just answer and deal with it, instead of letting some threatening voicemail message simmer and brew for days while I avoided looking at the blaring red “New message!” notification and tried to pretend it didn’t exist. That never turns out well.

“Hello?” I said in a brusque, no-nonsense tone. I wanted whomever was calling to know I had very little tolerance for shenanigans.

The voice that responded was deep but soft-spoken, and the speaker took his time with each word, savoring every phoneme as they passed across his lips. “Yes, good evening. I’m looking for Angela Johnson.”

I don’t really like confirming my identity for strangers, so I hedged. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Of course, of course,” he responded. “My name is Dr. Hector Bridgeton. I’m calling to confirm an appointment with Ms. Johnson.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course it’s just a stupid doctor’s appointment confirmation call. I started to give the standard reply (“Yes, of course, I’ll be there, I’ll bring my insurance card and copay, see you then, whatever”), expect that a) I was fairly sure I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment of any kind coming up, and b) I was quite certain I’d never made an appointment with anyone named Dr. Hector Bridgeton.

“Uh, Dr. Bridgeton? I think you must have the wrong number. I don’t have an appointment with you.” I got ready to hang up on Dr. Bridgeton, despite his lovely voice, but his response brought me up short.

“Oh, we definitely have an appointment, Ms. Johnson. And it’s right now.” And then there was a knock on my door.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)