h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I've decided to write a story while I'm off injured (again).

About a guy who suffers every time he does good. The greater the good deed, the worse the outcome for him.

But as a *Child of the Light* (thanks DG) he can't stop himself from getting involved.

I mean, most of us would help a stranger, even if we knew there'd be painful consequences...

Wouldn't we?


Balance Sucks. Part 1.


Why do bad things happen to good people?

A question spanning time, throughout mythologies and religions, there's always been some poor schmuck asking, "Why me?*

Here's the answer, simply put:

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

I'm sure Isaac bloody Newton never knew the full cosmic implications of his Law.

Forget physics and science. This simple fact encompasses everything. All of creation, the whole of Everything.

Yin and Yang, Darkness and Light, Good and Evil, fish and chips.. (OK, OK, not fish and chips) .. everything in every Universe needs to be balanced. (Although, I suppose even a good meal needs balance, so maybe fish and chips count too?)

But Balance, my friends, and here's another unbendable, irrefutable, Law - Balance sucks!

Totally, undeniably, infinitely sucky.

OK, forget Newton, it's more like "No good deed goes unpunished*.

Take yesterday.

One minute I'm standing there, enjoying a nice chat with workmates. The usual, unoriginal, but heartfelt, remarks about last month.

Echoes of many, many other events. Always the same. I wish they'd stop. Know what's coming. As I said, Balance sucks.

Hand shaken, back patted.

"Well done mate, don't think I could've done that! "

"Deserve a bloody medal, deffo would've died without you being there!*

"Can't believe they treated you like that, you're a bloody hero for God's sake!"

The next thing, I hear this horrible bang, the crumpling of metal, shattering glass, and the unmistakable snapping of bone.

Actually heard it, actually thought, "Oooh, that sounds nasty!"

Then I'm sailing through the air, stuff flying out of my pockets all over the bloody road, landing on one knee, arms outstretched, head bowed, like some bloody cheesy Marvel superhero in a yellow hi-viz!

Then I realise, through all that pain and blood, adrenalin and twisted metal, that it hurts when I breathe...actually, it just hurts.

And all I can say, when the cops arrive, the one thing that pops into my head...

"Why do I bloody bother?"

That's the way - tell it!

Who did it to you? Can you press charges?

2.

Looking back, I suppose the first time a little act of kindness became rather sucky was back at high school.

Not that you'd think so looking at me today, but once upon a time I was actually quite athletic... no.. I was actually very bloody athletic.

Unfortunately the very skinny, bespectacled, nerdy lad who always tried out for the rugby team wasn't. Not one little bit.

Very keen, a lovely lad, but not a sporty bone in his frail body. Always got picked last, always wiped that little tear of disappointment and rejection away before jogging along at the back, hoping he'd get a few minutes to show his dad how... show him...ok..God knows what he was trying to prove?

His dad should've been proud of the kid. Excelled in his academic work, Deputy Head boy, talented chess team captain too.

But daddy was a big rugby fan, pushed and pushed to try and make his son into something he just wasn't.

So Wednesday evening we all warmed up, trying to ignore the ice covered grass on the school playing fields, blowing into our hands, sharing jokes and rumours about the school we were to battle on Sunday morning.

The lad stood at the back, kicking his studs against the posts, resigned to the long wait as the teams were chosen. Knowing he'd be last. Always last.

Four of us usually took turns picking, showing off our wisdom, trying to prove who was the best captain (told you I was good!).

That night I decided to sit out, I'd had a quick word with the others, who thought I was bloody mad, a big softy, totally bloody bonkers, (in that order) and trotted to stand next to the shivering hopefuls.

First sixteen were a given, two packs of forwards that rarely changed. I'd been number 6 all season, first team and our local under 18s. Waiting for the County scouts and then who knew? Maybe Twickenham awaited!

But tonight... * Six... Blindside flanker... *

Everyone expected my name to be called.

Gasps when the finger pointed to the little guy at the back.

His bored face lighting up with shock and pure joy. He'd been picked! And not as the last choice!

Wait til he took that number 6 shirt home!

Practice began with many good natured slurs at me being replaced by a short-sighted stick insect!

That first kind deed made my night. Made me feel good. Seeing that lad puff his chest out, huddling with seven monsters in the scrum, a smile stuck on his face throughout practice.

The also-rans finished an hour before the first and second teams, early showers whilst the game plans were run through without hindrance.

It felt a little weird going back out to watch my teammates, but I stood on the touchline giving my support.

Five minutes left, the final scrum. I'm watching techniques and effort from five yards away.

Ball bobbles out towards touch, flanker gathers, sees opposition bounding towards him. Panic stations!

A huge kick from the little guy, slightly off-target... OK... very off-target!

The elongated ellipsoidal bullet hits me square in the face. Split lip, bloody nose and an imminent black eye.

I'm standing there, spitting blood, trying not to bark at the trembling number six (MY number six!), thinking,

"Why did I bloody bother?"

I'd only had the bike for two weeks, loved the little Kawasaki, couldn't wait to pass my test and get rid of the bloody L plates though!
Just didn't go with the long hair, leather and denim, greaser rocker image.

A mate of mine, a year older and already with a full licence, looked a bit worried.

Turns out his nan had been taken into hospital, in Chester, not looking good.

Ian's bike was off road for repairs, and he had no transport to get him up there to see her, buses long since stopped at this time of night on a Sunday.

He really wished he could see her...maybe for the last time?

Back then, a learner could have a pillion passenger on a motorcycle if the passenger held a full licence.

Easy choice for me.

Couldn't see him looking so sad. Mates are mates, biker mates are brothers.

Minutes later we were wobbling up the A41, getting lost around a strange city, but eventually finding the hospital.

I dropped him off and tried to remember the way home. Totally lost. My sense of direction has, it seems, never been that good.

Two a.m. by the time I'd found the road home. The Kwak now on reserve, fuel getting very very low...

Cough, splutter, oh bugger!

Just to make things even better, the heavens opened as I began the long push home, or find a garage on the way.

Three a.m. drenched and exhausted, I see headlights in a car park at the side of a pub. Great! Fellow bikers would help, we always did.

Six or seven bike lights glowed welcomingly as I soggily pushed the Kwak over the curb and into the car park.

My battered leathers squeaked with wetness, my very long hair plastered across my face, making it hard to see the bikers.

Ah. Oh dear.

Not bikers after all.

The icy water trickling down my neck turned icier as the bored skinheads gathered around multi-mirrored scooters saw the scraggly long-haired rocker enter their turf.

It did not go well. Seven against one. Mods beat rockers that morning. Literally!

As the Doc Martin boot kindly removed one of my front teeth, and the others gleefully trashed my bike, I thought of my grateful mate, sitting with his poorly nan.

Still couldn't help thinking *Why did I bloody bother?*

Late teens gave way to early twenties (as time tends usually to move in this universe) and I began to get two rather different reputations - depending on viewpoint.

I was always in the right place at the right time, really Lucky!

Or

Always in the wrong place at the wrong bloody time, unlucky bugger!

Half of the people who gave me my nickname actually, genuinely, meant it. I was, in their eyes, Lucky.

The other half, using that inaptronym in that hilarious English manner, generally took the Mickey every time something awful befell me.

Either way, nicely balanced, 'Lucky' stuck.

Despite my outward appearance, (the biker lifestyle was drawing me in with an increasingly irresistible pull) , I was a genuinely nice guy, still am probably (if a little jaded and battle-weary nowadays).

I scraped through my apprenticeship and qualified as an electrician, although the job bored me to death, knew I wouldn't stick it, but a rather unlucky incident had stopped me from going to art school, so I'd idled away four years doing as little study as I could to gain my papers.

A week after, the company went bust and we were given a few hundred quid in redundancy.

My mate had the idea of going out on our own, doing a few little jobs, beer and petrol money while we waited for full time employment.

A friend of his nan needed a few sockets fitting in her bungalow, worth a few quid, a quick and easy Saturday morning job.

And it was. Quoted her 80 quid , materials were 40, a whole twenty each! (That's how entrepreneurial we were back then) .

Job done. Lovely little old lady fussing over us, making tea, giving us cakes, really lovely.

Watching her scrabble around, counting notes and coins, trying to get her cash to add up to that eighty quid... Sorry, oh dear...Sorry boys, everything is so expensive... I...think there's a few pounds in my jar... Have another cake while I look...

On the doilied table, forty-one pounds. Could be a long wait.

I looked at my mate, shook my head, look, we'd got our costs back, maybe she has mates who need jobs doing? Spread the word for us, get us a good rep?

That teary smile, the gratitude on her face was worth way more than money. Lovely old girl.

As we were leaving, ten bob each richer, a loud clanging from above. TV aerial loose, knocking into the chimney stack.

Been like that for ages, keeps me awake at night when it's windy, poor neighbours must hate me, but just can't afford...


Two minutes later, ladders out, more promises of cake and tears, we fixed the problem within minutes.

Poor girl, shouldn't have to live like that. Easy fix. Lucky we had the ladders!

I stood back to inspect the freebie work, felt a bit of a wobble...and promptly put my left foot through the bloody roof!

A quick trip to A&E to stop the blood and a four hundred quid bill to fix the damage to her bloody (literally) roof.

Redundancy money wiped out, and a six inch gash down my leg, all payment for feeling sorry for the woman, trying to be kind.

Why did I bloody bother?