On Saturday I drove into Tallahassee in order to stay out of Studly Doright’s hair. Since he can’t play golf right now due to a recent back surgery, he’s embarked on a series of projects that I’m not adept at taking part in, such as cleaning the carburetor and spray painting the frame of a PW 80 Yamaha he’s fixing up for our grandkids.
I tend to be something of a bull in a china closet when working in the shop. Parts break, stuff gets lost, paint goes everywhere except where it should. Studly is patient, but after so many goof ups he shoos me into a corner.
My escape from Doright Manor took me to Target where I wandered the aisles picking up items on a shopping list. I made goofy faces at little kids and chatted with their moms, sniffed scented candles and hefted different styles of bookends.
I created backstories for people I encountered–the woman dressed in all black was in the federal witness protection program, the elderly gentleman wearing old-style khakis and a button down shirt had made millions in the stock market only to lose it all in the last recession. His gold digging trophy wife had left him for a still wealthy man, only to return because the sex was so damned good.
My imaginings were disrupted by a crash followed immediately by a harried father of three sternly reprimanding the oldest of his children.
“Isabelle, what did you do?”
Isabelle, who appeared to be six, or thereabouts, said, “The boogie boards just fell over.”
“Did you have anything to do with the boogie boards falling over?”
“Maybe, Daddy, but they were stacked so deceptively.”
The dad and I made eye contact. Neither of us laughed; although, it was a near thing. He’s going to have his hands full with Isabelle.
I wandered a bit more before returning to Doright Manor. Thanks to Isabelle I have a new excuse for my klutziness.