[ WP ] Whatever you may need at a given moment appears in your pocket , could be money , a ticket , a condom ... but today , when you were at the grocery store , instead of the money you where expecting you got a gun .

It started with a plane ticket, so I could take Jean to Hawaii. Then when I needed money to board the bus, once again I found the right fare nestled in my pocket. The third time was after Jean and I had broken up, when I spent the night with a flame, that time the pocket had produced a condom –as if it knew best. 
 
 But this time, when I reached in to find five dollars for the remainder of my grocery fee, I found something entirely different instead. 
 
 A gun. 
 
 “ That ’ s a hundred and thirty dollars, thank you, sir, ” the customer service boy repeated. 
 
 I thought about asking if a gun would do. But instead, I stood frozen, contemplating what the pocket was playing at. 
 
 “ Sir? ” the boy asked, noticing my tense demeanour. 
 
 The gun was cold against my hand, the grooves on its side reminded me of a large kitchen knife I had back at home. A knife I usually used for cutting chicken or whatever I was cooking up for the evening. If the pocket wanted me to kill these people for five dollars, it was out of its mind. 
 
 Or maybe I was. It would do the job. 
 
 “ Hey, pal, can you hurry up? I ’ ve got an appointment to get to! ” someone in the line yelled. 
 
 How about you pick another line? That ’ s what I wanted to say. I pretended to fish in my right pocket instead; maybe the gun wouldn ’ t be in the left side a second time. 
 
 “ I was sure I put it somewhere here... ” I told the kid. 
 
 I went back to the left side and dipped my hand in. This time, the pistol was even heavier, it bulged against the side of my pocket, making the frame clearly visible in the black folds. 
 
 The customer service boy craned his head over the counter. 
 
 My heart raced in my chest, I had to come up with something. 
 
 I could explain that my pocket produced things against my own will and that it wasn ’ t my fault at all. The thought left my mind as soon as it was born. Saying shit like that was a one-way ticket to a psych ward. 
 
 “ He ’ s got a gun! ” the kid screamed. 
 
 Everyone hit the floor, some people started running. All eyes were on me. 
 
 Blasted pocket... I had no choice; I was going to have to go Rambo on all of these innocents. Maybe it was the pockets way of teaching me a lesson. 
 
 *Hey, this is what you get for forgetting stuff all the time. Spend the rest of your life in jail. * 
 
 I snapped the gun out of my pocket and held it in the air. 
 
 “ It ’ s not what it looks like, ” I told the audience. 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 After a moment, the customer service kid started laughing. Then the crowd cracked up as well. I looked at the gun. 
 
 Only it wasn ’ t a real gun at all. It was the plastic casing of a see-through white pistol, proper grip, trigger and everything, but inside was five dollars in change -instead of the usual gun mechanics. 
 
 The pocket had given me exactly what I needed: five dollars inside a fully armed piggy bank. 
 
 And a message... *do n't forget your stuff again. * 

