After a wonderful fifteen-day cruise from the Port of Miami, my daughter drove us to her home on Singer Island. My throat hurt, my eyes burned, and my head ached, so Sharon asked me to stay with her. I declined, wanting to get horizontal in pajamas in my own bed.
Sharon left my car running to keep me warm while she unloaded her luggage from the trunk. I promised to phone her upon my arrival home.
When I drove into my parking space, I burst into a sneezing frenzy. I reached into my purse for tissues and retrieved my house key attached to my second set of car keys. The cold front’s howling north wind forced me to lean forward as I hauled my luggage twenty yards to the house. Sneezing intermittently, I turned on a heating pad in my bed, set the house thermostat to seventy-eight, walked outside for the rest of my luggage, and locked the car with the remote.
I phoned my daughter to report I had arrived home safe and sound. Well safe, but sound was iffy. After donning my warm pajamas and knitted foot warmers at 8:00 p.m., I snuggled under a pile of blankets with only my nose sticking out.
Much later, my sleep-fogged brain heard an annoying, persistent ringing. Oh, the phone. Simply reaching outside my warm blankets to answer the call made me sneeze violently.
I blew my nose and croaked, “Allo.”
“Your car is running,” a man said.
I turned the light on and blinked at the clock: one-thirty in the morning. I sneezed and blew my nose again.
“My car is running?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That’s impossible. I’d never leave my car running.
I sneezed and asked, “Is id a gold Mercury parked in Golden Lakes?”
“Yes.”
“And the motor is running?”
The man emitted a deep sigh. “Lady, I’m parked behind your car in a security patrol car with the yellow light flashing. Although I’m not a licensed mechanic, the exhaust coming from the tailpipe is a significant clue the engine is running.”
Apparently, he wasn’t accustomed to conversing with the mentally challenged. Catching burglars was probably preferable to dealing with a dimwit. I rushed to bundle up and trotted outside.
I thanked him profusely and croaked, “I’b sorry. I’b sick and nod thinking clearly.”
My car had been slurping gasoline at $3.59 a gallon for almost seven hours. Instead of carrying my embarrassment in silence, I decided to share it with the world and give others something to smile about and a chance to feel superior.
You’re welcome.