I am not much of a believer in karma; however, I did witness an interesting experience once that does give the idea some credence.
Many years ago, and I met a guy at work who had moved from Arkansas. He had family back there, waiting for him to discern if this was a good move, so he was living in an efficiency apartment until he made up his mind. We hit it off and became friends, and in conversation about what he did for entertainment, it came out that he did not do much. Obvious, really, considering he had upended himself and gone alone to a new place just to check out a job prospect. I offered to have him come along with me and some others on an outing to a nightclub we frequented. He agreed.
Just to add some flavor, I will mention that this guy was relatively normal-seeming. This is just my commentary and not judgement. He did become friends with me, after all, so he could not have been that normal. We were headed to Numbers, which is not only Houston’s longest-lived nightclub but also has a reputation for being a bit “different”. I have been going for years, and I feel right at home there.
The guy from my work (let’s call him “Mike”) really took to the place. He loved the music and was really enjoying himself. Let’s just say that there was much dancing and drinking. At one point, he said he had to go to the bathroom. The restrooms at Numbers are notorious, even more so back then than now, so I decided to accompany him. He was clearly tipsy, at least, so I felt compelled to be something of a guide.
The men’s is small, two urinals and three stalls. And the condition is usually horrid. Sometimes, there might be a nice, shallow sheen of liquid waiting in the stall area. You might find other substances in there, too, some ready to go in, others having come out. There might be more than one person stuffed into those stalls. When we showed up, there was a small line of guys waiting, thought a urinal was open. You can imagine why there was a queue for the stalls and available urinals. Mike looked around, a bit confused, and I waved him to the open space.
I killed time, since I didn’t need to use the facilities. Another guy came in, and he balked at the crowd, doing a little jig and declaring he really had to go. He glanced around, then went right for Mike, probably because he was the least threatening or most normal looking in there. I wondered what was going on, so I paid close attention. They exchanged a few words, then Mike finished up and let the guy have the urinal. Apparently, the guy had been so pressed he had cut in line and convinced Mike to pass the torch, as it were, giving him quick access to relief.
We left, and my friend was laughing. He showed me that the guy had slipped him a few bills to ‘buy’ the cut in line. Considering the others were waiting on stalls, this was even more amusing. We got back to the bar, and Mike unfolded the crumbled currency – two one’s and a fifty.
I was shocked. Clearly the guy had not intended to give him $52. I encouraged Mike to go find him. The club was very crowded, so that did not happen. What did happen was Mike managed to somehow lose a lens from his glasses while dancing. We looked around, but that thing had escaped. It cost him fifty dollars.
I am not sure if some bizarre universal sense of fairness invoked its power that evening, but it sure was an odd, interesting, and fun experience.
Dance of the Butterfly 