A striking curl of events

I have often wondered whether, in spite of their general fulness of shit, whether the hippies' claims of synchronicities- scoring a free bag from the dude they gave a ride all the way up 66, meeting that one chick again from the Dead show in Tulsa who was, it turns out, the daughter of his mother's best friend, the two of whom went to a Dead show in Tulsa- have anything to them. Cynical I may be, and a skeptic, but I, too, want to believe. The hippies would have one believe that belief alone is enough to tighten the knots in the karmic web, albeit in words less succinct.
     A few days ago, a colleague of mine asked whether I'd seen a Mr. Nevin Dexter lately. Old N___ had disappeared for about nine months, after as many months of constant drunkenness, yells like one brain-damaged, and general asininity. (One presumes that the arrest following his fore-ending of a convenience store dumpster whilst U.I. might have some relevance.) Your man, too, knew of N____; the last time they crossed paths, the latter and his woman gave your man a ride home, where he gave, by way of thanks, N____ a punch in the throat, and his lady a shoved-against-the-fridge kiss. I can vouch that they had it coming; N____'s woman is tempting and he himself is a nimrod. Not that he's all a rotten apple; his behavior was largely caused and affected by his father's recent passage and inheritance-leaving. I can't justify his oft-claimed claims of intention to work in some chemical capacity for The Terrorists. But I bear him no ill will, nor, after reading, might the reader.
     N_____ had been sighted recently by the colleague, and indeed by myself as well. His sighting was of the old legume loping along the street, and I myself spied him briefly in an old haunt of drink of his. As it happened, I happened upon him again that evening, wobbling down the sidewalk. That might have been the end of it, in an uninteresting way, but I gave your man's brides a ride home later.
     At the foot of a hill, we came across two young men pushing a large Bronco-type rig across the street and up the hill we'd come down. Rarely too stingy with a good deed, if it's not overinconvenient, I pulled over to push along. The leader of the twoman rubberleg band thanked me, explained that some girl had asked him to move it, and that the keys were in the backseat, which they weren't. I said, Oh, and looked at the other pusher, who was Mr D___ himself. He said, I remember you, and then lomped away, nary a lookback. I was struck by it all. One tries to do a good deed... That might have been the end of it, but I picked up your man's brides the other day.
     I walked into the clinic, and the receptionist motioned for me to wait whilst she finished her- doubtless pressing- telephony. I quickly realized that she was talking about the brides herself, and then she used my name, and spoke of "pushing it". Well. She wrapped it up with a truism: Small world, and turned to me. I agreed with her, and explained why.
     Apparently, this Mrs. David Matthews and her husband had gone to see Lynrd Skynrd this wednesday last. While the cats were away, their mousy daughter allegedly played Old-Enough-To-Drive. Allegedly, she drove their truck away, lost the keys, and asked a young skinny black kid to move her thousands of pounds truck. Mr. N___ D____ happened upon him just as I did on the two of them, and the tangled web was woven complete. And one tries to do a good deed.
     I am left with the tentative hypothesis that if one attempts to do good, then interesting things will happen. I rather doubt it, but it is a starting point, and in any case, there's no less for me to lose than society by experimentation with it.