Cookies

The battered lid of the box was ripped in one corner, a smear of dust across the words Good Will Cookies on its lid. The hand-written note below them was legible, and the man smiled ruefully as he lifted the lid and carefully munched on a crumbling cookie. Good Luck Jerry. How good luck equated to cookies he was at a loss to answer. His luck had not noticeably improved either, and only the fact that he could still chew the cookies was something to be grateful for. A car swept past and the dust of its wake made him squint into the harsh blue sky. It was, he guessed, about five o’clock. Still hours to get home, if he could, before nightfall. That would be a good idea, because to be outside at nightfall wouldn’t be clever. He shrugged and dusted the crumbs off his lap before reaching into the box and taking out another cookie. He smirked at the message, with all its materialistic, short-sighted and sickly sentimentality. As if good will could be spread by cookies. Had the three men who stole his bag been infused by good will from his cookies? No. Had the person who sold him them, taking money with one had and taking his wallet with the other, wanted to make the world a better place for all men? No. Had the dough been sprinkled with some potion, an ingredient to bring out the best in people? He didn’t think so. The more he thought about it, the funnier it became. Given good will cookies as a leaving present, by someone who he had only spoken to three times in the year and to whom he felt nothing but a mild irritation when in the same elevator. The person, he didn’t even know her name, had probably been forced to buy ten boxes by her daughter and in an effort to get rid of them had decided to spread some good will. She hadn’t even bothered to check whether his name began with a G or a J. He felt himself getting angry there, sitting on a curb side in his torn shirt and one shoe. As he finished he last bite of his second cookie, someone walked up beside him. Without looking he told them that if they wanted to steal anything all he had were some cookies. He was quite surprised when a child’s voice answered that she liked cookies, but that stealing was bad. Could she have one please?

Certainly. Here, have the box. Your name isn’t Jerry by any chance, is it? No, thought not.

She liked cookies, did he like cookies?

Not as much as her, clearly, he thought, as she munched steadily through four without stopping.

Yes, but one at a time.

Thank you very much. As she walked, clutching the box under and arm and a cookie in her hand, Gerry smiled again. Good Will Cookies. He chuckled to himself and walked home in one shoe.

At the gate of Eden, just after God had said goodbye to Adam and Eve because of Original Sin, He may have manifested a cookie, and said no hard feelings.