Thank God

The conversation with my friends lasted longer than usual. It was because heavy rain was pouring down, hitting the café windows. When the rain finally began to slow down, we got up to leave.

Right after we started carpooling to cross the George Washington Bridge, a police siren sounded behind us. I felt relieved when the officer walked toward the car in front. But then—oh no—he came to our car too. He asked for the driver’s license. The driver, who looked kind and gentle in the rearview mirror, looked confused. I sat in the backseat, unsure what to do. Should I help pay for the ticket, even a little? Maybe sharing the responsibility would help comfort the driver.

After a while, the police officer came back. I felt even more nervous. I wanted to open the door and run away. But I knew I had to take responsibility, too.

“This time, I’ll let you go. Be careful.”

The police officer only gave us a warning. The driver, now in a good mood, thanked me. I was really glad that someone so kind didn’t get a ticket.

I don’t like being alone with a kind person. It creates a feeling that I also have to be kind. It’s also hard to spend time with someone boring.

It feels like being stuck in a dark tunnel—I just want to get out quickly. I prefer meeting with three or four people. We can take turns talking, so there’s no pressure. And it’s more fun because everyone brings something different. Someone might share useful information. Another might make us laugh or tell a wise story. And if someone talks too much, I can just look out the window.

I’m glad I’m not so kind that I always say yes and listen to every little story people want to tell.

There’s one type of person I especially want to avoid—someone kind but very narrow-minded, who likes to talk about religion or politics. These days, even women talk a lot about politics. They tell me to care more about my home country, or that I should find salvation. They hold back, and then suddenly say these things like they’re finishing a speech. I want to walk away, but since there’s no one else to listen, I just sit there feeling trapped.

At one gathering, a woman kept talking about people I didn’t even know. When I thought she was done, she started a new example.

“Give me money,” 

I said. She was so into her own story, she didn’t even hear me. Even if she gave me money, I wouldn’t want to listen to more. Of course, I also sometimes talk too much and bore others. Maybe even to my readers who read my writing. Sometimes, I feel I should pay them for the effort of listening or reading.

I know I could just stop talking or stop writing. But even though I know it like a broken faucet, the words just keep leaking out—drip, drip, drip…