Sunday Scribblings: Miracle, Part 2

Here is the rest of the soup story:

Roommates came and went. Roommate's boyfriends came and went. Friends and friends of friends came and went. There was plenty of other homework to focus on and decided I'd worry about my soup dilemma later.

After a delightful dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese and Bisquick biscuits, my 6 roommates and I got ready for the annual "Polyester Prom" on campus. We'd spent weeks getting our thrift store outfits together. I looked at the $3.50 platform shoes that went perfectly with my black and white floor length polyester dress and knew tonight would be the only night I'd ever wear them.

Soup. Shoes. Hmm.

There was no denying I looked great, shoes and all. I wasn't going to let the stupid soup assignment ruin my evening. I'm pretty sure I didn't think about soup again until Monday in advertising class.

"Don't forget about your Progresso Soup ad," the professor said minutes before the end of class. "I hope by now that most of you have purchased and tried the soup."

I walked out of class with my head down, not from shame or discouragement, but because I wanted to see if I could spot any change that had fallen, unnoticed, to the ground. No lucky pennies that day. I passed the small fountain and reflecting pool on my way out of the fine arts building and pictured myself wading, ankle-deep, to gather $1.75 in carelessly tossed-out change. I wasn't that desperate, thank goodness.

How could it be that I let myself get so low on cash that I didn't even have a measly dollar seventy-five for soup? It was more than a bit humiliating.

I considered faking the assignment. I'd seen ads for Progresso soup after all. I knew it had giant chunks of meat and vegetables and fancy spiral pasta. "Progresso soup tastes home made," I tried out. "Progresso soup makes me feel like someone cares about me." Better.

Maybe I could convince one of my roommates to buy a can for herself, then mooch just one tiny taste. One bite was surely all I needed to understand the exciting complexities of Progresso soup.

So I had options. The world, it seemed, was not going to end.

I tried my soup suggestion out on Brooke. She and I worked as janitors together at some fancy, off-campus offices. She was on board immediately and we made plants to head to the grocery store after our morning classes the next day.

Tuesday morning I was the only one awake as I prepared for my 8am class. None of my roommates were delusional enough to have signed up for any class earlier than 10am. I loaded my bag with books and notebooks and headed out the front door. I stopped though, when I saw a paper sack sitting on our front step. Probably a surprise from one of my roommates boyfriends, I thought.

I grabbed the bag and brought it inside, but as I set it on the front room table, I saw my name on the bag. MY name.

I opened the bag and was immediately humbled to see a can of Progresso soup and a ten dollar bill. All the foolish 2 taco deals and cheap, 70's platform shoes assaulted my conscience. I had not been careful with my money. I didn't deserve this charity.

All the possible do-gooders did a little parade through my brain and I alternated feeling elated and embarrassed. Who could have done this? Who had I been whining to? Who had seen me as so helpless and hopeless?

I decided quickly to focus on the thoughtfulness of the person who'd anonymously come to my rescue with a can of Progresso soup. Part of me wanted to know who it was, but another part really, sincerely didn't.

I put the ten dollars in my wallet and felt like a queen. No more taco deals or silly purchases. I had a responsibility towards that money and would not spend it foolishly. Maybe I'd even find someone else to pass it on to.

I put the blessed can of Progresso soup on the kitchen counter so Brooke would know she could hold on to a her hard earned janitor-cash a bit longer, then left for campus feeling like a little rough edge on my heart had just been sanded smooth.