Needless to say I promptly hot-footed it to Beth's. The Skeet, by his lonesome, not driving, but sitting in Miss Daisy? That's precarious enough. And not that Duane isn't trustworthy; it's just that those two together, without supervision? My headliner's gonna get ripped, somebody's spilling some beer, something pitiful will happen, and chances are I won't even find out who did it, let alone get compensated.
So I screeeched up nineteen minutes later (yes, I broke the speed limit) and the first thing I see is Duane... toddling back from some homeowner's sideyard.
And he's zipping up.
Though this urinary indiscretion took place six houses away from the other woman's, it still represented a serious lapse in decorum. I tried to relate as much to my friend, and to his friend, but amid their protests ("We're s'posed to hold it all day?" and "Where's the pisser in your Morris Minor, Herbie?") I soon realized acquainting them with so much etiquette was simply futile. Moreover, upon cross-examination, it came out that during that morning's briefing I had completely skipped over restroom protocol. It seems certain "staking out" preparations that were commonsensical to me had completely eluded the Skeet, namely, minimizing fluid intake and going "one more time" at the nearest gas station/city park restroom/construction site Porta Potty.
Mmmoving on.
Other than some axel grease* on my door handle, nothing seemed amiss, so I sent those two Yahooligans on their jolly way. Thought about returning to Kev's, but who starts a major dig on a Friday afternoon? As it turned out, not our man salsa. Same story Saturday: no diggity. Sunday? Different story.
Which I'll get back to.
First, though, I need to catch y'all up on the salt mine. If you'll recall the date for this update on the herb's default page, it's been a full week. Plain and simple, during my suspension my inbox became pregnant. Nothing, not even the more how-you-say "time sensitive" items, in my inbox was addressed. Whatevah. So I've been pulling twelve hour days all week, trying to "surface," and the rest of this sentence is all typical shop talk, blah blah.
Sunday the 8th, though, turned out to be not so mundane.
Here's what happened. Not much at Kev and Tiff's. He never rang me up, nobody strolled their backyard, nada. Either my missive didn't reach him, or he's just gonna let the power company conduct their own excavation, because as far as he knows there's nothing untoward buried under his slab.
At dusk I was ready to put a fork in it. A whole week shot. Oh well. So I'm nearing our subdivision and, as an afterthought, I just happen to detour past the other woman's abode, and who's there but Kevin B. As I round the corner he deposits a large box or container in the back seat of his sedan. I park; he goes back indoors. I duck down and unlimber my homemade periscope. A minute later Beth and salsa guy emerge; this time he's lugging a 40 pound bag of Kibbles 'n Bits. Except--due to his squirming underneath its heft and the way she was steadying him at the shoulder--I'm thinking it weighs a lot more than 40 pounds. Halfway to his car it rips open, wire comes out, and they quickly shove it back in. She glances surreptitiously up and down the block, like she's looking to see if anybody saw their whoopsie; I could see them talking earnestly to each other, not arguing, just wanting to quickly clean up the mess, not make a scene, get him outta there. They go back indoors, then like four minutes later he again walks out with--I presume--the same large sack of dog food, only this time it has more clear tape on it. I say "more" because I distinctly remember seeing clear tape on it four minutes earlier. Which in itself might not be so strange--perhaps it had originally breached its packaging while at, say, a Wal~Mart, and because of this cosmetic damage, it had subsequently been taped up and placed in a discount bin.
Based on what I saw on her driveway, though, I'd estimate the contents of that bag to be valued considerably higher than discontinued shampoo or a loaf of day-old bread.
Oh, you betcha: considerably higher.
caveat emptor, indeed
FORWARD to what happened next
BACK to my first and most disturbing encounter with the salsa guy
OVER to HerbNation HOMEPAGE
*courtesy of Duane, who'd been working on his ex-wife's moped when he got the call.