Nothing. I can't think of anything. Well, except that I was driving. And, nearby, another person also drove. And he was leading the way. Though he didn't know it.
And, yes, it was a "he." A guy named Kevin B.
So salsa guy is motoring about. He even drives to an allegedly important place: his local Wal~Mart.
So he drove there. I waited in the parking lot. Actually I waited near the pumps at Murph's. Murph's filling station. A place where a helpful guy named Murph used to bound to my car and clean my windshield and check my oil and chat amiably about the Nets or the Mets while we waited for my tank to fill.
But Murph wasn't there. He hasn't been there for decades it would seem. "Murphys" is there though. Occupying a corner of their parking lot. And so I waited. Near the air. I fingered my gauge and checked my pressure. All my rubber bulged sufficiently. I pulled forward to a spot where I could spy both exits and Kevin's sedan. By this point I did know his license plate number. By heart.
And then I asked myself what I was doing. Again. I'm telling you I almost gave up. It had been so long, so very very long since I'd heard that fateful CRACK, that terribly loud explosion in the parking lot of my local Sam Walton's creation.
What was it all for? Who cares if--
And right then I saw him bang his way through the exit doors. This time instead of one lone jar of salsa, he pushed an entire shopping cart, a cart brimming with perishables, Mylar balloons and duct tape. And on the rack underneath? Yep: a large bag of dog food.
This was especially curious. In all my visits to or near the B.'s residence I hadn't heard any dogs. And believe you me, I know from the barking of dogs.
So what's with the mutt chow? Is he feeding it to that guy he has chained up in his basement? Are they preparing for the arrival of another family member? A canine member, AIW?
It was too tough to call. Perhaps they already own a large pooch, I thought, one that's had his or her larynx removed specifically so he or she would remain quiet no matter how many squirrels were plotting against them, no matter how many dog catchers were suspiciously creeping back and forth on their lane.
Well, as you can imagine, I had to keep following him. He started his car and--as if things weren't strange enough--proceeded to hop on the interstate. And drove to my town. 22 miles away.
Now unless his checker bagged all manner of non-perishables into freezer sacks, I sensed a catastrophe brewing. What I'm telling you is I coulda sworn I saw him loading refrigeratables into his car. And he drove with the windows down. On a pretty hot day: it stayed in the upper 80s all afternoon.
Long story short: something wasn't smelling right in Denmark.
And then Kevin took my exit, and drove to another exurb, this one a scant two miles from where Dawn and I tend our garden. He parked in the driveway of a somewhat run-down split-level home, and--without knocking or ringing the bell--walked in the front door while toting that large bag of Kibbles 'n Bits.
After waiting ten minutes I figured I'd seen enough; I pulled my strap around me. But right when I leaned forward to turn the key, the front door opened. Out walked salsa guy. And there was a woman with him. Despite being parked forty yards from her stoop, I could easily tell she was not his wife. And then they kissed. On the lips.
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