Five mornings a week, I wait at a stop near my apartment building to catch the bus to my downtown job. These are usually uneventful times—occasionally I will just miss a bus, the same occasions I really need to catch a bus so that I will not be late for work. But most times, I am at the stop early enough to catch a bus well before needed, and I wait patiently with my fellow CTA travelers for our subsidized transport.
It was a mid-September morning, just as the Chicago weather was beginning to shift from a very pleasant Indian summer to an ever so slightly more brisk autumnal shade. I was again waiting for the morning bus. I had my headphones on, CD playing Elvis’s number one hits, when an overgrown bumblebee, made sluggish by the weather change, seemed to have decided that I should be his new best friend. My brothers and sisters will tell you that I’ve never much cared to strike up any kind of relationship with insects that sting, and certainly not when they are as big as Kaiser rolls.
Without thinking I involuntarily swiped at the flying monster, not quite sure just what sort of bug wanted to snuggle up to me. I regretted this almost the instant it occurred, for now as he flew right in my face, it became clear to me that I must have smacked him pretty good. I was convinced he was now on a mission to end my very existence, even if he had to sacrifice his own to accomplish this.
Well, after running around the stop for a minute or so, with only one or two onlookers bemused by the event, salvation came in the form of an articulated bus. Thankfully, the death bee had left me alone long enough so that I could board and put this miserable morning awakening behind me. But of course, nothing occurs at random, all things happen for some reason. [No philosopher ever escapes this assumption.]