The Man with the Broken Trolley
Learning to let go of broken things
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t give refunds.”
“But you were the reason I was late. My previous flight was delayed, and that’s why I missed my connecting flight.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t give refunds.”
“What am I supposed to do for six hours until the next flight?”
“I can give you access to our lounge.”
“OK?”
“Just walk back the way you came and take a left. You’ll see it on your right-hand side after a few minutes.”
You get what you pay for, I guess. I chose the cheap option to South Africa — the one with three connecting flights — and now I was stuck at the airport. I turned around and started off. After walking for a few minutes, I arrived at a sign that said “Business Lounge,” with five stars underneath it — or at least there should have been five. One had fallen off, leaving only its silhouette.
In front of the sign, a man who worked for the airport was sitting in a plastic chair. He looked tired. I asked him if this was the business lounge. He yawned, stretched, and nodded.
Inside, rows upon rows of people were sleeping in worn-out chairs, contorting their bodies in the most creative ways to get comfortable. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant. The walls were painted green. They had probably been vibrant and striking when first done, but now the color had faded.
Aren’t there supposed to be food at these things? I saw a woman walk past me carrying a large plate of what looked like meat. She placed it on a table nearby. I walked over and saw it was salmon, with a basket of bread beside it. I had never seen salmon with such a hue before — it was brown and lifeless.
I decided that I should rather take a seat. I picked a chair with comparatively few creases. As I sat down, I noticed how many people had taken their shoes off. I couldn’t get comfortable. The chair groaned every time I shifted. I glanced at the clock — five and half more hours to go. The thought hit me suddenly: would it be worse to sit here for the next few hours or to actually arrive at my final destination?
A loud, white, elderly man a few rows ahead of me kept saying the word “Israel.” Intrigued, I tried to listen in. What on earth could this conversation be about. He was speaking to a black woman seated across from him.
“Did you know there are black Jews in Israel? he said. They’re black, but they’re Jewish — living as Jews in Jerusalem. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.”
The women listened in silence. The man’s wife, sitting beside him, tried to take discreet drags from her vape pen without anyone noticing. Their daughter had black hoodie on. She had pulled it over her head, hiding her face.
In the corner I heard giggling. It was a father and daughter playing. He was tickling her. She would run away, turn, and cautiously creep back towards him again. He would catch her and the whole process would start over. She did not care where she was, she only cared about who she was with.
We were on the second floor. I sat by a large plate-glass window, looking out over the city below. Winding dirt roads crisscrossed the view, lined with taxis whose drivers waited patiently for their next passengers. Dilapidated buildings punctuated the skyline.
A man dressed in worn, frayed clothing was pushing a shopping trolley down one of the roads. It was filled to the brim with empty plastic soda bottles. He was probably on his way to exchange them for some money. He pushed it with some speed. Suddenly the front left wheel hit a rock. The trolley tumbled over, and the bottles went flying in every direction.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I knew it was her before I even looked at the screen. That sinking feeling in my stomach came rushing back.
“Where are you?”
“I missed my connecting flight. I’m stuck here until the next one.”
“Why didn’t you text me when you got off the plane?”
“I had to run to try to catch my connecting flight. There was no time.”
The man with the worn clothes had uprighted his trolley and was crawling on his hands and knees, searching for bottles. He retrieved them one by one. They were underneath cars and garbage cans.
“Did you do some thinking while I was away?”
“Yes, I did, my dear.”
“Good, because we have a lot to talk about. I have a lot I want to say to you.”
“I know, dear.”
Sweat was dripping down the mans face. It was a hot day. Dust from his tumble clung to his forearms. He had scraped his knee. A small streak of blood had trickled down to his shin.
“You’re probably happy I was away for a month. Finally, you could have some peace and quiet.”
“It was your idea to leave, not mine.”
“You put me in that position. I couldn’t stand being in that house with you any longer.”
“Please lower your voice, dear. Your parents will hear you.”
“I don’t care if they do.”
By now, the man had gathered most of the bottles and put them back in his trolley. He pushed it again, but the front wheel — the one that had hit the rock — was broken. It had jammed and wouldn’t turn, leaving a deep groove in the dirt as he forced the trolley forward.
“Maybe if I speak loudly enough, you might actually hear me. I don’t feel like you ever really listen to me.”
“Please don’t start with this again. I’m trying my best but I don’t know what you want.”
[silence]
“Of course you don’t… I don’t know why I bother. You have never known. Goodbye.”
I put the phone back in my pocket. The man was still pushing the trolley. He was leaning into it at a sharp angle, his body nearly bent in half, shoulder pressed against the handlebar. The trolley rattled from side to side, threatening to tip over with every shove. Why did he keep pushing the trolley if he knew the wheel was broken? The trolley was broken!
At some point, it would inevitably fall over, and he would have to start all over again. It was hopeless. My heart was pounding. My hands were trembling.
Why was he doing this to himself? What was wrong with him? Why did he not just leave it where it was? Before I knew it, I got up and walked over to the window. My legs were moving on their own. I hit the glass with my hand, harder than I meant to. The sharp smack echoed through the lounge.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing?” I screamed.
Silence swept through the room. Everyone in the lounge was staring at me. The father and his daughter stopped playing. I kept shouting. The man couldn’t hear me. He kept pushing the trolley.
“What are you doing? It’s just going to fall over again. Stop! ”
It made no difference how loudly I yelled. He was slipping away. I couldn’t stop him. He just kept going.
“Just leave it. Walk away! Walk away.”
The trolley carved a jagged line in the dirt behind him that seemed to stretch out endlessly. His figure was fading into the distance. He got smaller and smaller until all that remained was my reflection in the glass.
