“Allowed but Forbidden”

Denis Mavromichalis 

Mr. Johnsson stepped out onto the street and inhaled the crisp city air, only to feel a prickling unease settle in the back of his mind. Somewhere deep within, a small voice whispered, “Hey, just so you know, you really shouldn’t be breathing out here.” From around the corner, his neighbor Mr. Peterson chimed in, as if by chance: “And, by the way, blinking in the half-open entryway? Yeah, that’s technically off-limits, too.”

 

Mr. Johnsson slumped a little, trying to stay on the safe side of things. He decided to walk around the nearest street pole, just in case. But waiting behind it were two signs: one shouted, “No Entry,” while the other murmured, “No Prohibitions Here... But Don’t Quote Us on That.”

 

He ducked into a store, aiming for a loaf of bread, and immediately felt the familiar sting of doubt. “Plain white bread? Not allowed. Whole grain? Allowed.” He even scrutinized the packaging, hoping to find a seal reading “Approved by Everyone Everywhere.” But, alas, the loaf was as plain as it had been ten years ago unmarked and untouched by the march of progress.

 

In line, he was, naturally, passed over by someone clutching an armful of greens, proudly proclaiming, “This! This is allowed! Celery, broccoli, the hallmarks of a righteous life.” Mr. Johnsson wondered if he should buy kefir and chia seeds to keep up. But his gaze drifted back to that simple loaf, and he slipped out of the store with it tucked under his coat.

 

Then, came the matter of his car. Mr. Johnsson parked it, not precisely where he was “supposed” to, but in that gray area of “they said it was allowed, but no one’s entirely sure if that’s true.” Just then, the very citizen with the celery reappeared, clapping him on the shoulder, exclaiming, “You picked a fine spot, my friend! A real gem!” Johnsson allowed himself a small grin. But just as he did, a fine appeared on his windshield, “No Smiling! Only the reckless park here!”

 

That hit Johnsson square in the heart. Suddenly, he understood even if a hundred green “allowed” stickers dotted a parking spot, a single red “not allowed” in the inspector’s eyes would always win.

 

Feeling emboldened, Johnsson ventured over to the park, eyeing a bench. Should he sit? Or was it reserved for “those who sit properly”? He leaned in to check the sign on the bench, which read, “Sitting allowed only with a straight back. Posture is our priority.”

 

Not one to take chances, Mr. Johnsson sat up straight as a ruler, and for a brief moment, he felt a strange inner calm. But that, too, was a mistake. Up came the park's cultural wardens, who gently chided, “Listen, Johnsson, we get it, but here, benches are meant for everyone. Nobody sits that perfectly, really—just relax, alright?”

 

Mr. Johnsson walked home, wiser and illuminated. He’d finally grasped it: the world was divided into what you could do and what you couldn’t, and no one really knew which was which. The point, after all, wasn’t about breathing or blinking just right. It was about simply being. And if you’ve got yourself a loaf of bread and happen to eat it in a back alley—well, there’s no need to torment yourself over it.

 

And with that simple truth, Johnsson ambled toward the next bench, ready to sit any way he pleased. After all, here, he figured, it just might be allowed.