This is a true story. It happened just yesterday. First of all, the morning before yesterday, I woke up with a bum left ankle. No idea what I did, but it hurts when I walk. Maybe it was something as simple as hyper-extending it while stretching during my drive home from Iowa - but that's just a guess. In any case, I've been limping badly for two days. Thankfully, it feels a little better this morning.
So, yesterday, when I stopped by one of my accounts, I dropped off some vinyl boat letters for the sales manager. He'd emailed me while I was in Des Moines last week, sending along an attached photo of a little boat he bought for his family so I could see the style and color of the lettering he asked me to try to match. No biggie - just the registration numbers; a three minute job here on my computer. I said I could do it but that I wouldn't be back in town 'til Tuesday, and that I'd drop them off by Wednesday; yesterday; which is my usual day to stop by his place anyway.
I limped into his office, gave him the lettering and suffered a couple minutes of good natured teasing from him and a couple of salesmen who were sitting in there with him. One of the guys said I reminded him of Walter Brennon as Grandpa McCoy on"The Real McCoys". I agreed, remembering the character fondly, but the other guys in the office were far too young to remember the series and they started in on both of us about being older than dirt.
After a couple minutes of banter, I limped out to the lot to see what work they had for me. I made my list then slowly made my way back toward the showroom to see which of the jobs I'd found for myself were ones they wanted me to do. When I came around the corner I found the sales manager on the front porch of the showroom speaking to the owner. I walked up and heard him say, "I swear, sometimes I want to moon the cameras!" The owner, who was just being paged, shook his head sympathetically and quickly turned to go back inside.
"What was that about?", I asked Craig.
"It's nuts", he said, "Next door to the property where my family's cottage is - which has been in the family since before I was born - there's a child molester."
"Oh man," I said. "That sucks."
"Yeah, he was a dentist here in town and and about ten years ago he got convicted of all kinds of stuff. He was writing up prescriptions for Oxycontin for little boys, somehow luring them and plying them with whatever he could, and then... well, banging them."
"Oh jeez. That awful."
"So, somehow he got out of jail a few months ago and now he's living at his cottage - next to mine - and they've set up security cameras along the perimeter of his property to keep tabs on him during his paraole. I guess I'm glad they're there, but we hate having the cameras on all the time. I mean, it's our COTTAGE."
"Oh Craig. You must be worried sick."
"Well, no. Not really. I've got little girls. He likes little boys, so I'm not THAT worried, but, yeah, it still sucks."
I too shook my head sympathetically. By now a couple of salesmen had ambled up and were listening to our conversation. They'd obviously heard the story already. "Man, I can't imagine dealing with that," I said.
Then he added, "So get this: I've got this guy on one side, and on the other side is a Catholic Priest."
My mind whirled and for some reason, I retorted, "yeah, but that's okay. You've got little girls".
And as we all processed the horrible thing I'd said reactively, we all started groaning, then slowly we all started laughing; then laughing harder, if uncomfortably; each of us feeling terrible about what had been said and the possible truth it implied, even if that had gone unsaid. It was truly funny, and sad... and, of course, extremely sick.