The Day the Plague Hit
I think the guys next door must think we're drug dealers. We come home with a different car nearly every night.
The car thing I can explain. I can also explain why I think they think we're drug dealers. To start with the more obvious one, the impression we've created, and why I believe they believe it:
The other day, as I drove up in yet another different car, I saw the curtains rustle back into place. If I were in a desert town, stopping at the one gas station along a dusty highway, I would probably have jumped back into the car and sped off. And if it turned out I was in one of the films that this sort of scene takes place, my car would have failed to have started, and I'd be stranded in the driver's seat, and the next shot would be from the point of view outside of the car, and some axe or hook or something metal and painful, should it be driven into a person's person at some speed, would be seen hurtling from the uppermost corner of the screen, towards the driver's side window, and me.
But this wasn't one of those. The curtains just stopped rustling, I got my bag out of the back seat of the car, and I went inside the house. Where I was attacked by a man with a hook for an arm! Just kidding. I don't know why I said that. We live in a safe neighborhood, far from any place you might hear of someone being attacked inside your home by a man with a hook for one arm. Of course, that's always how the movies play out like that, don't they? At any rate, that didn't happen. I just went inside the house, didn't get attacked at all, took out my Zeiss Conquest (binoculars, for those who don't know...), and took another peek at the window across the way.
But that's not the reason why. That's just something I'd noticed that I'd been dying to get off my chest. With the Zeiss I couldn't see much, staring at their curtains, which led me to believe they had something to hide, because those binoculars can almost see through a human hand, at close enough range, and providing that the hand in question is relatively thin.
No. I figured they thought I was a drug dealer when one of them sidled up to me, as I was checking my mail, and asked me, in a hushed voice, if I had any of the good stuff. And they said it like they had quotation marks around "good stuff." They may have made the quotation mark gestures with their fingers, but if they did they were being far too discreet about it, and besides, I was looking at my mail at the time they'd sidled up to me. And, since I was looking intently at my mail, they half scared the pants off of me, sidling up like that, whispering my way.
To be continued... ?
disclaimer:
Many millions of apologies for missing the deadline this week. You see, the office resembled the Typhoid Mary this week, with 95% of us either incapacitated or otherwise indisposed, so the issue got a slight late start out of the gate. It happens, sometimes, apparently.
We wouldn't have gotten sick if more people had been buying tshirts and books, to be honest with you.
I want you to think about that and think about what you've done. Then, when you're done with that, make sure you go out and buy the perfect Easter present for your loved ones... a copy of Fenway Fiction wrapped lovingly in a Sane Magazine shirt.
It'll make everyone feel better, trust me.
Support Sane:
Tshirts & clothing: The Sane Magazine Shop at Cafe Press
- New designs coming soon, so these limited edition shirts may be worth bazillions of dollars soon!
A Book: Fenway Fiction
See you next week, not on the dime, since it seems we jinxed ourselves by saying that last week.
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