- May 18, 2001
- 7,875
- 372
- 126
Did you ever have one of those days where a higher power was pointing and laughing, not with you, but at you?
This morning I woke up bright and early to go to a weekly church-sponsored breakfast at our local Cracker Barrel. The breakfast started at 6am, so I was awake brighter and earlier than any person should ever have to be. I like to get up at the last possible second as I value sleep more than most. After 40 years of always nearly being late, I’m a master of efficiency; had I dropped a sock, I wouldn’t have gotten there on time. Anyway, I’ve been awake for quite a while this morning. In theory, the pistons should have been warmed up and firing quite nicely by the time I got to work.
While their food might sometimes be suspect, one thing that Cracker Barrel almost always gets right is their coffee. Some people, like my wife, enjoy “coffee” that is nothing more than tinted water with a hint of coffee-like flavor (which she promptly kills with some sort of girly creamer). On the other extreme are the people like the guy in the cubicle across the hall from me, who enjoy brewing industrial-strength exotic roasts that like to liquefy the lining of my stomach. I’m mostly a right-leaning moderate; I like my coffee a little stronger than the middle, but without having to commit to anything that might challenge my world views. This morning was coffee Nirvana; by the time I got to work, I had already downed 4 or 5 cups. The second theory du jour is that my neurons should have been quaking uncontrollably in caffeine-induced glee.
On the contrary, when I arrived at work this morning, it was pretty obvious that all the guys upstairs had missed the memo about the time change. The lights were off. The doors were locked. Nothing was buzzing.
I got about 10 steps from my truck, and in my sleep-deprived stupor I fumbled my phone. As luck would have it, it skittered right to the exact middle of the rear axle of a black Grand Am that had been customized with a low rise kit. I took a good look at it and decided that my arms were too short to reach the phone, then tried to reach it anyway. After lots of flailing around on the ground in my good clothes and copious amounts of failure, I finally came up with an idea that was actually not too bad: I would hike to the plant entrance, get one of their loaner golf umbrellas, trek all the way back to the car, then scoot the phone to a spot where I could reach it. It was a plan I could love. I began the long hike over the river and through the woods to the plant, while the golf umbrella 10 steps away in the passenger seat of my truck stared at me in mocking incredulity.
So I finally arrived at the guard shack, where I explained the situation to a group of folks. We all had a good laugh. They were more than happy to let me borrow an umbrella. I began the long journey back across the parking lot, up the hill, again over the river and through the woods, to the parking spot beside my truck. I looked around, confused. The Grand Am was gone; it had been replaced by a purple Scion. Even worse, the phone was gone, too. I was halfway expecting to see the phone in pieces with a tire track down its middle, but no. I decided that this was good news; obviously the owner of the Grand Am had worked the night shift and had gone home shortly before the owner of the Scion had arrived, seen the phone, and turned it in to the guys at the guard shack. Back to the guard shack I would go to happily retrieve my phone.
One more long hike later, I finally arrived breathless and weary at the shack, where the guards explained that nobody had turned in any lost phones today. Well then, the person who found it must have carried it into the plant, where they would send out an email in hopes of finding the owner. Someone suggested that the main guard, Steve, should try to call the phone to see if anyone would answer. To do so, they would need my cell number, which, of course, I would have to provide. This morning that was an unusually difficult challenge. Steve attempted the first number that I produced; it failed. I dug around in the cobwebs and produced half a dozen other numbers, all of which also didn’t work. The other guards began to eye me suspiciously, and mumbled to each other about how I might be a good candidate for a random drug screening and cavity search.
Finally, one of the guards made the suggestion that if the Scion had run over the phone, its tire might have flung the phone further away than I had expected. I needed to expand the area that I was searching. Defeated and resigned to the fact that I was going to have to make the journey up the hill yet another time, I started out. The desire to be on a beach, or for that matter anywhere else, began to grow strong.
A long time later, I finally arrived at the parking spot next to my truck. The Scion was still there. I looked around in vain, walking in ever expanding circles, only to find no phone. Instead, what I found was a black Grand Am, three spots down from my truck. With my head down while searching the ground, my shins had practically collided with its bumper. Rusty wheels had finally started turning, and that familiar feeling of being a complete idiot began to seep into all my other thoughts. I slowly kneeled to the ground, and there in the middle of the rear axle was my phone. Forces greater than me were having a bit of fun at my expense. The universe had taunted me by moving the Grand Am and my phone from the spot adjacent to my truck to a spot that was several down, and trading it with the Scion.
So I finally remembered that umbrella in my truck, and used it as needed. I decided that after the final hike back to the plant, I would try to move through the guard shack as stealthily as possible and enter the closely-watched nuclear facility undetected so as to avoid any embarrassing questions. Of course, the guards are highly trained to spot this exact type of behavior, so in no time I was the focus of attention for a bunch of armed guys who had no problem mercilessly laughing at my stupidity.
I think I‘m going to lock myself in my office for the rest of the day.
This morning I woke up bright and early to go to a weekly church-sponsored breakfast at our local Cracker Barrel. The breakfast started at 6am, so I was awake brighter and earlier than any person should ever have to be. I like to get up at the last possible second as I value sleep more than most. After 40 years of always nearly being late, I’m a master of efficiency; had I dropped a sock, I wouldn’t have gotten there on time. Anyway, I’ve been awake for quite a while this morning. In theory, the pistons should have been warmed up and firing quite nicely by the time I got to work.
While their food might sometimes be suspect, one thing that Cracker Barrel almost always gets right is their coffee. Some people, like my wife, enjoy “coffee” that is nothing more than tinted water with a hint of coffee-like flavor (which she promptly kills with some sort of girly creamer). On the other extreme are the people like the guy in the cubicle across the hall from me, who enjoy brewing industrial-strength exotic roasts that like to liquefy the lining of my stomach. I’m mostly a right-leaning moderate; I like my coffee a little stronger than the middle, but without having to commit to anything that might challenge my world views. This morning was coffee Nirvana; by the time I got to work, I had already downed 4 or 5 cups. The second theory du jour is that my neurons should have been quaking uncontrollably in caffeine-induced glee.
On the contrary, when I arrived at work this morning, it was pretty obvious that all the guys upstairs had missed the memo about the time change. The lights were off. The doors were locked. Nothing was buzzing.
I got about 10 steps from my truck, and in my sleep-deprived stupor I fumbled my phone. As luck would have it, it skittered right to the exact middle of the rear axle of a black Grand Am that had been customized with a low rise kit. I took a good look at it and decided that my arms were too short to reach the phone, then tried to reach it anyway. After lots of flailing around on the ground in my good clothes and copious amounts of failure, I finally came up with an idea that was actually not too bad: I would hike to the plant entrance, get one of their loaner golf umbrellas, trek all the way back to the car, then scoot the phone to a spot where I could reach it. It was a plan I could love. I began the long hike over the river and through the woods to the plant, while the golf umbrella 10 steps away in the passenger seat of my truck stared at me in mocking incredulity.
So I finally arrived at the guard shack, where I explained the situation to a group of folks. We all had a good laugh. They were more than happy to let me borrow an umbrella. I began the long journey back across the parking lot, up the hill, again over the river and through the woods, to the parking spot beside my truck. I looked around, confused. The Grand Am was gone; it had been replaced by a purple Scion. Even worse, the phone was gone, too. I was halfway expecting to see the phone in pieces with a tire track down its middle, but no. I decided that this was good news; obviously the owner of the Grand Am had worked the night shift and had gone home shortly before the owner of the Scion had arrived, seen the phone, and turned it in to the guys at the guard shack. Back to the guard shack I would go to happily retrieve my phone.
One more long hike later, I finally arrived breathless and weary at the shack, where the guards explained that nobody had turned in any lost phones today. Well then, the person who found it must have carried it into the plant, where they would send out an email in hopes of finding the owner. Someone suggested that the main guard, Steve, should try to call the phone to see if anyone would answer. To do so, they would need my cell number, which, of course, I would have to provide. This morning that was an unusually difficult challenge. Steve attempted the first number that I produced; it failed. I dug around in the cobwebs and produced half a dozen other numbers, all of which also didn’t work. The other guards began to eye me suspiciously, and mumbled to each other about how I might be a good candidate for a random drug screening and cavity search.
Finally, one of the guards made the suggestion that if the Scion had run over the phone, its tire might have flung the phone further away than I had expected. I needed to expand the area that I was searching. Defeated and resigned to the fact that I was going to have to make the journey up the hill yet another time, I started out. The desire to be on a beach, or for that matter anywhere else, began to grow strong.
A long time later, I finally arrived at the parking spot next to my truck. The Scion was still there. I looked around in vain, walking in ever expanding circles, only to find no phone. Instead, what I found was a black Grand Am, three spots down from my truck. With my head down while searching the ground, my shins had practically collided with its bumper. Rusty wheels had finally started turning, and that familiar feeling of being a complete idiot began to seep into all my other thoughts. I slowly kneeled to the ground, and there in the middle of the rear axle was my phone. Forces greater than me were having a bit of fun at my expense. The universe had taunted me by moving the Grand Am and my phone from the spot adjacent to my truck to a spot that was several down, and trading it with the Scion.
So I finally remembered that umbrella in my truck, and used it as needed. I decided that after the final hike back to the plant, I would try to move through the guard shack as stealthily as possible and enter the closely-watched nuclear facility undetected so as to avoid any embarrassing questions. Of course, the guards are highly trained to spot this exact type of behavior, so in no time I was the focus of attention for a bunch of armed guys who had no problem mercilessly laughing at my stupidity.
I think I‘m going to lock myself in my office for the rest of the day.
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