I owe the man who has the store a lot of money. I owe him so much money that I know, though I’ve never counted it exactly, I owe him more than I can ever pay.
For years I’ve been going to his shop, buying things on credit, sometimes even promising to pay, but never paying - ever. Today I met his son in the street. I’ve never met him before. I never even knew that the man has a son.
The son comes up to me and says, “I’m the son of the man who owns the store!”
I look for somewhere to run to, but somehow there’s a kindness about the son of the man who owns the store that makes me forget that idea, and I stand and listen for a moment to what he has to say.
“I want you to know,” he says, and he’s smiling a little as he says it, “I want you to know that I’ve paid your account with my father!”
“My account?” I say, “but I haven’t...”
“With the man who owns the store,” he continues, still smiling, just as if he hasn’t heard the start of my lie.
“I’ve paid it in full, including any interest the law says he could have demanded - though he didn’t.”
I look at him.
“Yes, I’ve paid everything in full. In fact my friend, I’ve paid the accounts of everyone here, so....”
I look at him again.
“So my father would like it very much if you could find the time to see him and talk to him. He’s always liked you - that’s why he lent you so much - he could have got the law on you as soon as you missed your first payment you know, but he didn’t because...”
The man is still smiling.
“Because, as I say, he wants to be friends with you - and so do I. Oh, and one more thing,” he says, “he told me to tell you that if there’s anything you want from him in future, just ask him or me and we’ll give it you - for nothing!”
And I turned, and I walked away from the Son of the Man who owns the store.
Copyright © David Lawrie 1998
This article “Is This Your Story?” may be freely copied and distributed, provided that this Copyright notice and permission is included, and that there is no alteration either to this notice or to the text of the article itself.
