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The Everyday Man of Sorrows.
Do people really act like that?
The guy was supposed to be here already. Finally, he shows up with the truck. I see him on the road in front of the house doing a three-point turn that turns into a ten-point turn because of the narrowness of the street.
“Go get the key off him so you can get into the house and start unloading.”
“Will do.”
“I couldn’t get the key.”
“Why not?”
“The driver said his arm was too sore; he couldn’t reach it.”
I walk over to the truck and tap on the driver's side windshield.
“Hey, buddy.”
The startled driver sees me and turns down the radio.
“I need the key to the house. Can you help me out?” His arms looked pretty good to me; he was fighting the steering wheel like he was wrestling a small alligator.
“Oh yeah, sure,” he replies.
We walk over to the house together and he reaches up to the sill above the garage door. There are a number of keys lined up on the threshold and he grabs the one on the far left, finding it by touch.
“Here ya go,” he says, as he hands me the key.
