We had quite the unusual visitor at our
house yesterday. I was on the couch
watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Finally
available on Netflix), and Chris was in the kitchen preparing some of her
fabulous chicken and dumplings (In her
words, “It’s just a chicken and dumplings kind of day”) and talking on the
phone to Christina, I think. Into the
midst of our reverie came the blaring of the doorbell. At least I assume that happened. I didn’t hear it. Chris did, though, so she came over and
tapped me on the shoulder to inform me that someone was at the front door. Sure enough, there stood a young man we
didn’t know waiting patiently for an answer.
I joined him on the front porch and was about to ask how I could help
him when he jumped in with, “Well, is it the Equinox or the pickup?” And I was instantly more confused than usual
(if that is even possible). But as I
glanced behind him, I began to form a picture of who this guy actually
was. There in the street in front of our
house was one of those huge wrecker trucks – the kind that puts your car onto a
trailer instead of just dragging it away.
He was here to haul off one of our vehicles. Why?
No idea. They are both paid for,
and have been for some time. One was in
the driveway and the other was legally parked on the street. The one on the street I had just driven to go
fishing the other day, so it couldn’t be listed as abandoned.
After the split second it took for all
those thoughts to race through my already drug-addled mind, I simply and quite
eloquently replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Of course that was just an elocutionary ploy
to give me some more time to figure out what could possibly be going on and
what would be my best possible course of action. Could I take him out? Not likely.
He was about a head taller than me and outweighed me by a hundred or
so. Could I simply close the door and
hope he goes away? Nope. I was already outside on the porch. No way I could get the door open and avoid
his clutches. Besides, he already knew
where I live. Perhaps I could bluster my
way out of the situation, concocting some cockamamie story about how his boss
had just called and told me to tell him to get back to the shop in a hurry
because they just had an emergency call for a wrecker to pick up a … a …
renegade TransAm stuck in a swamp up on the Mainland. Huh.
Not likely with this chemo brain.
Or there was the best yet … I could play the “old guy” card. That had all kinds of possibilities, not the least
of which would be the hard of hearing excuse (No lies involved there). Or maybe
my real trump card … the bad back. Ah,
the endless scope of rationalizations there.
But no.
All I could come up with was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”
followed by awkward silence. He glanced
down at his paperwork. He stared at me
for a second or two. Glanced back at his
truck. Back at the paperwork. And then he looked over my shoulder. I followed his gaze to … our address. And just as realization dawn on me, it did on
him as well. “Oh wait,” he said, “I’m at
the wrong address. It should be 7205. I’m so sorry.” And he was off. That’s it.
Gone as quickly as he had come. Both
of our vehicles were safe and sound. I didn’t
have to reveal my secret identity or use any of my hidden super powers. No need to call on the super friends for
back-up. Just back to the mutant turtles
and a hot bowl of chicken and dumplings.
Hey. I’ll take that any day.
1 Timothy 1:5 says, “The goal of this command is love, which comes from a pure heart and a
good conscience and a sincere faith.”
Father, thank you for hot soup and paid-off
vehicles and late afternoons to enjoy them with my wife. Amen.
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