Paying It Backward

Box Brown

You were the person in the car ahead of me at Chick-fil-A around 6:45 p.m. on Jan. 10. Your car was white, probably a Toyota, possibly a Matrix. When I pulled up to the window, the eager cashier announced that my dinner had been paid for. Thinking this was some sort of publicity stunt and that a teenager in a sagging cow outfit was about to pounce on my car and biblically assault my family, I just stared at him and waited. He went on to say that the person in front of us asked to have our dinner bill put on their tab. I must admit, I'm a little out of my element here. It's not just that I enjoy cynicism the way some people enjoy ice cream—I bask in it. I've delivered rants about the state of the world that have made left-wing scholars cry and probably are the reason I'm invited to fewer and fewer children's birthday parties. Nevertheless, you did this nice thing for me and my family, and I'd at least like to acknowledge your kind, anonymous act. From one citizen to another, thank you so much.

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