Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I was home visiting my family a couple years ago, and I decided to walk to my parents’ house from my sister Melissa’s house after we’d been out late. It’s about a mile and a half. Plus there’s a bar on the way, and I knew that one of the guys I used to work with at summer camp hangs out when he’s in town from Milwaukee. I walked into the bar on the off chance that he was in town, and he tackled me mid-stride. Rolling around on a bar floor is never wise, but it didn’t seem to bother either of us. I had a drink with him and then walked the remaining half-mile to my parents’ place. For some reason I had all of my camping gear in the trunk of my Buick Skylark, and it was such a beautiful night, that on my way home I decided I’d sleep out in my tent. When I arrived at the car, I couldn’t find my keys. My logic only extended as far as getting my camping gear, so I decided to just forget it and sleep inside. The next morning I wanted to drive someplace, and that was when the bigger problem of not having my keys dawned on me. Not only could I not get my camping gear, but I also could not drive my car. I walked back to the bar, and the bartender gave them to me. She said they’d fallen out of my pocket while wrestling the night before, and that they’d held onto them since I obviously wasn’t driving home anyway.