Chapter 3

The old man's third stop was to return a red ball-point ink pen at The Great Wall of Privilege. This was a massive 20 mile long wall crossing through the town of Privilege. Built by the wealthy and honorable Mayor Hugo himself, it served not only as a lucrative tourist attraction to walk or jog along, but also to symbolize the separation of classes in the town. The rich, or upper class lived on the north side of the wall, right in the heart of Privilege. And the poor, or lower class, lived in the south of town, which the rich saw as quite fitting, for they were under privileged.

As the old man approached the entrance to The Great Wall where the pen was to be returned, he noticed groups of protesters gathered behind a police barricade with signs reading, Down with Walls! Equal Privilege for all! and Mayor Must Go!

"We're tired of being treated as lesser humans!" yelled a man.

"Mayor Hugo must go!" yelled a woman breaking the line. 

"Get back!" ordered a police officer,"BACK!!"

A struggle between the protesters and police broke out and the old man, caught in the middle, felt like a swimmer caught in rapids. He pulled out his red ink ball point pen to make sure it wouldn't be bumped out of his possession, and to his dismay, he discovered it had been leaking profusely for some time. The red ink had stained his coat pocket and drenched the left side of his white shirt. It left a rather bloody mess on his hands, as well. 

The squabble turned violent as an old lady began swatting a rookie police officer with her purse at which he pulled out his gun and shot it in the air. 

The dispersing panicked crowd caused the old man to trip and fall and he inadvertently stabbed himself with the red pen still in hand. The wound, coincidentally, was right in the middle of the ink stain on his shirt. He pulled it out, but the sight of it all caused him to fall again unconscious and a protester, noticing the red on his shabby clothing yelled,"He's been shot!"

"They've gone too far!" yelled another.

"He's dying from loss of blood!"cried the first, noticing a circle of stunned onlookers, "Won't anyone help this poor man? Are we not all ambulance-worthy??"

As the crowd's anger intensified along with the riotousness, while the old man slept from what was actually a minor puncture wound, an ambulance arrived and raced the supposed victim to the nearby hospital under the pretense that he was dying of a gunshot wound.


"To the hospital!!"yelled a protester.

"We shall demand fair treatment!" added another as a march to Privilege Hospital coalesced behind him.  

"You are a popular man," said the physician, when the old man awoke on the operating table in room 324 on the lower class care third floor,"the whole town is turned out over you."

"What do you mean?" asked the old man. 

The surgeon opened the curtains of the nearby window revealing a boisterous crowd of protesters below with signs that read SAVE THE POOR MAN! and HE DIES, YOU DIE! 

"Well, I have some good news for you, and all of us, apparently," said the doctor, "First of all, you are not going to die: turns out you have not been shot at all. May I say that you are the victim of a red ink pen gone mad?"

"Certainly–you need no permission. And may I say that is good news, but it is old news?" said the old man.

"You need no permission, either."

"Thank you. Were you going to say something, secondly?"

  
The nurse nudged the physician.

"Well, yes," said the doctor, hesitantly, "secondly, we feared the puncture wound had damaged your kidney so we checked them, but upon close and lengthy inspection we discovered that both of your kidneys are...well, in perfect shape."

Then a nurse said under her breathe, "And a perfect match!" to which the physician ordered her to leave the room.

"What did she mean–a perfect match?" asked the old man.

"Well, you didn't hear this from me," said the doctor softly,"but the mayor of Privilege is here in the hospital on the upper class care first floor, of course. His kidneys have both failed. He will die soon without a kidney transplant and yours, sir, is a blood and six antigen match, coincidentally."

"I'm starting to lose my faith in coincidence," confessed the old man, and then, without thinking, he added,"I would be happy to make him an offer of my spare kidney on letterhead if you have such a thing?"

"Certainly, do you need a pen, as well?" asked the doctor.

"No–but apparently there are many who do."

And so, the old man was brought a piece of stationary and he wrote just as he spoke, not knowing what words would come out... 

Dear Mayor Hugo,
It has come to my attention that you are in desperate immediate need of a kidney transplant. It has also come to my attention that my kidneys are a perfect match to yours and in my lonely old age, I see little sense in hoarding any of my organs and so I will gladly offer one to you. 

But first I must ask you this: Assuming that you, on the first floor, are prominent upper class citizen of Privilege and that I, on the third floor, am of the lower class, are you sure you want to run the risk of tarnishing your image if, by inserting my lower class organ, others were to discover that you are now partially lower class? 

Now before you answer this, perhaps there is a solution that can save your life, your reputation, and this fine town from civil war:  

Take my kidney and then tear down the Great Wall dividing Privilege and announce that there will no more be class distinctions; that all citizens of Privilege are of the same class; the human class, and the that you are living and breathing proof that the kidney of a poor man, or even a heart is as good as that of a rich man.

Either way, the kidney is yours...

Sincerely,

The poor old man.

PS. I left my address on back if you would ever like to write back. 
  
The letter was then delivered and read, and the old man's kidney was next removed and inserted successfully into the mayor's side.

"The mayor's life has been saved, and he thanks you from the bottom of his heart...and your kidney," said the surgeon when it was all over,"Of course, time will tell if it is a complete success. You know, I have a funny feeling that things are also going to be different in this town because of you."

"First, may I say that your feelings are no laughing matter," said the old man.

"You need no permission," said the surgeon,"were you going to say something, secondly?"

"Secondly, I will say that if things change, it will not be because of me. For all good change comes from God, He is the Changer."

And with that the old man went on his way...