USA. A parking lot. One nod from a stranger, and I have been gathering shopping carts ever since. Let me explain how I was knighted. I returned my own cart to the steel corral. Both hands. A small bow. Japan has no such custom, so I gave it the weight it deserved. A man loading his truck saw me. He nodded once and said, "Respect, man." I froze. I know a knighting when I receive one. This man had witnessed my honor and named me. I was now sworn. So I looked for the next duty. It was not far. A lone cart, abandoned, drifting across the lot like a riderless horse. I could not leave it. I escorted it home. I bowed. I returned for another. There were so many. Americans, it seems, abandon their steeds everywhere. By the curb. Between cars. Marooned on little islands of grass. Each one I gathered. Each one I bowed to. Each one I led home to its brothers. One cart. Then six. Then twenty. The man with the truck had not left. He was watching me with shining eyes. He elbowed his wife. "Now THAT," he said, "is a good guy." He believed he was witnessing the most decent man in America. I believed I was fulfilling the sacred office to which he had appointed me. Neither of us was going to ruin it. A store employee came out. "Sir, you don't work here." I bowed deeply. "The honor is mine." He went back inside. By sunset I had gathered forty carts into one gleaming column, aligned like cavalry before a charge. A small crowd applauded. I did not know why. I assumed it was customary. The man with the truck shook my hand before he drove off. "Stay classy, brother." I do not know what a classy is. But I will guard it with my life. So tell me, America. When you leave your cart adrift in an empty lot, who do you think comes for it? I do. I always will.