Welp, foiled again.
Maybe. Probably.
It's easy to do the ol' Monday morning quarterback thing, hindsight being ever so limpid. Yes, part of me is kicking another part. Vigorously. But then again, it may turn out fine that I forced Kevin B.'s hand.
I'm talking about, of course, putting my actual phone number on the "intent to excavate" letter I sent him. The letter that--truth be told--provided quite the impetus for him to tear up his concrete slab.
Well, you guessed it: he called. I had just gotten home from the salt mine, and it happened so fast I didn't have time to be scared.
"Yeah, this is Kevin B. over on Redacted Avenue. When exactly were you guys gonna start fixing your lines around here? I thought that-- Wait; do I have the right department?"
Pause. "Department? I, uh... I think you have the wrong number entirely," I said.
"Is this PG&E?"
"Wrong number, dood." I snapped shut my cell. Immediately my phone rang again. I didn't answer. Started shaking instead. Have since calmed down a bit. These calls took place a week ago. He hasn't called since. I would have updated sooner but... well, let's just say I was extremely worried about numerous coincidences all happening in a coordinated way that, upon more sober reflection, were well beyond the realm of possibility.
There's no way he knows about this site. Sometimes I kid myself.
Mmmoving on.
Which I'd like to do: move on. Or move away from this problem. Or fix.
Yes, I like to fix when there's a problem. But I think the most prudent strategy at this juncture is to sit tight. Mr. Salsa Guy either already has or will soon enough realize he was duped into digging. I'm sure he's called the real PG&E by now.
My original intent behind including my phone number was that if he needed any clarifications as to who where why what, I'd clarify. I knew the layout of his back yard; I had clicked on a few energy websites and familiarized myself with their lingo, rehearsed a few speeches, stuff.
But I just hadn't thought this far ahead. Or maybe, subconsciously, I really didn't think he was gonna dig. I really didn't think he had a reason to dig. I threw it out there, and I thought it wouldn't happen.
But it did happen. He did dig.
And now he thinks my number is a fake, part of a ruse.
Or.
Or maybe he knows I have something to do with it. Maybe his thinking is as follows: "A person who would send somebody on a wild goose chase just might want to stick around to keep tabs on things... or to get a laugh. Or who knows why."
Again I'm whelmed. But not overwhelmed.
It's weird but even in the face of all this "quasi-evidence" or whatever it is, I still think there wasn't a body under that slab. That's right: was not.
But something is fishy. Maybe there was something nefarious under that concrete, but it wasn't illegal. Or not as illegal as a murder victim. Maybe there was something buried there that he wanted to keep secret from Tiffany. And that something was worth the cost of renting a Bobcat, and...
Hmm.
OK, so except for a few wild speculations, that's about where I am. So now you're caught up. How do you feel?
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