At the salon

I have my feet in a sink full of sudsy water in a salon, finally using in September last year's Christmas gift from my mom. A lady walks in and wants to book a manicure. The secretary gives her Monday at 2 p.m. There is a hesitation-that's when her favorite soap comes on. No problem, says the Ukrainian patron, under the flicker of her eternal votive TV screen; we'll put it on your station. The tension is defused and there follows lighthearted banter in which the client discloses that she arranges everything in her life around her soap.

Later I notice in the news that motorcyclist Cliff Guilett was killed on September 5 when his bike went out of control at 239 mph during a time trial at the famous Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah.

The world is full of trap doors. There are the biggies, like the internet or magazines in your friendly neighborhood quickie-marts that ambush you for a life of porn addiction. There is the well-meaning uncle who introduced you to your first drink at age 12 at a relative's wedding. There is the kid along the fence in the schoolyard who calls you over and has something to show you. There is Dunkin' Donuts. Some forfeit your life, with drama. Others just render you ineffective. There are the grand enticements ("need for speed"), and the ignominious (need to know what's going on with Alicia Minshew). It's all the same to Satan.

The fortunate thing is that God has his trap doors, too. You can even be one of them if you want to.