I’m in the subway on my way to see a new movie. It’s not like I was in a hurry. I was engrossed in an article with a next-day deadline. I amended the draft as I reread it on the train. As I was going up the escalator to leave the subway station, a young woman heading in the opposite direction dropped a crumpled piece of blue paper that positively looked like a five-hryvnia bill. For some reason I hesitated for a couple of seconds; maybe I was still preoccupied with the article. When I was about to say something, a guy who was walking behind the woman bent down and scooped up the money. I stepped off the escalator without saying a word. What a slowpoke. I must learn to tear myself off away from my writing once in a while. What stopped me from reacting faster? After all, I have lost money many times and know how upsetting it is. Then I could have walked away with a sense of accomplished duty and words of gratitude from a stranger.
On the other hand, everything happened too quickly. And I was absorbed in the article... I guess. Even at that instant I could have shouted to alert the girl, but then things could have turned out less pleasantly and may have had unpredictable consequences. That guy’s face did not radiate too much intelligence. I could have gotten into a confrontation involving swear words, or even a fight, with the inevitable involvement of the police. As a result, I would have been late for the movie and would have had a bruise underneath my too perceptive eye, or honesty would have gained a heavy but valuable victory and most of the laurels, complete with a black eye. Meanwhile, the lady lost her money, the thief became richer by five hryvnias, while I was left with a feeling of discomfort.
The movie was about a man who was having a picnic with his fiancee and saw an air balloon carrying a boy off into the sky. He vainly rushed to save the boy along with other bystanders. The balloon started to rise sharply, and it had to be released. But not everyone did: one of the rescuers continued to hang there, his hands clenching the rope. Eventually his hands slackened and he crashed to his death. The boy was later saved.
The main character starts to torment himself: was he the first to release the rope, with everyone following suit? And if so, is he to blame for the tragedy?
He is obsessed by his thoughts, and these pangs of conscience lead to snowballing consequences: he fights and breaks up with his fiancee; he is stalked by a half-crazy pervert; the film ends with a stabbing and pools of blood.
Sometimes life has a very grim sense of humor.
