It began like every other day. I walked into the kitchen, fumbled around in the mess that is now our flat share ‘all hours diner’, and tried to sort through the mounds of things on the counter to find MY breakfast granola. And there it was — the alien, sitting at the back for all to see. Who could have brought this unwelcome thing into our space? There must have been a home invasion, an intruder that left it behind in his haste to escape.
It couldn’t have been Crazy D since, with all his health and fitness regimes, it is clear he views his body as a temple. He spends the better portion of his day cycling, lifting weights, running, skiing, and spinning (which is what my mind does just thinking of all that exertion) in order to get his strength and endurance up for his Great Bike Ride and for work. No way would he be the guilty party.
L’il Sis is likewise fanatical about what she puts into her body…with the possible exception of wine and chocolate. She couldn’t possibly be the one. She entered the room, saw what I saw and asked the same question: “Who brought THAT into the house?”
“I haven’t a clue,” I answered.
A few minutes later, Second Son wandered in through the garage door, as he often does. “Hi everyone! Whoa… what’s THAT doing here?” It was said in a tone that could also be used had a huge, boa constrictor invaded the fruit bowl, ready to launch an attack on us, the unsuspecting, vulnerable local inhabitants.
“Clearly YOU had nothing to do with it,”I noted.
“Please!” he said, crushed that I would think such a thing of him.”I thought you knew me better than that.”
“Okay, troops. Everyone up against the wall! Who is responsible for this abomination?” I pointed to the evidence on the counter.
We all looked at each other. Then we stared at the object, unsure as to how to proceed. Should we touch it? Heave it outside? Hide it?
Then Crazy D walked in. “Why is everyone staring at the counter?” he asked.
“Do you know anything about this?” I questioned him. We pointed…from a safe distance.
“Yup. It’s mine.”
We all attacked at once. “How could you? That kind of thing hasn’t darkened our door for years…and now you dare bring it in? You should be ashamed!”
“But, but…I was just trying to help,” he pleaded for mercy.
“How is that helping?” I railed.
“Well, did you not just pay a plumber good money to unclog the kitchen sink drain? I was trying to save you some money. I heard that pouring Coke down the drain can clear it right up. If it can rot your stomach and your teeth, I figure there must be something to it. OMG! You didn’t think I was actually going to drink it, did you? I thought you gave me more credit than that.”
When I told Gill of the mystery six pack of Coke, she groaned. “Oh, no. Now Crazy D is tending to your every plumbing need? I fear for your house. Oh, and FYI, if you ever see him with a hammer or drill in his hands, take them away from him. He does NOT know what he’s doing with tools!”
As I put the phone down, I caught a glimpse of Second Son downing one of the little red cans. “You do realize you’re effectively drinking drain cleaner, don’t you?”
“Urp…” he belched. At least he summoned the good grace to turn beet red.