Travelling with a malfunctioning brain is sure to cause mishaps. We already know from the fiasco in New Mexico trying to find Silver City that I am not be trusted with directions. Well, turns out I am not to be trusted with other things either.
The day after we arrived in Arizona, I decided to catch up on some washing. Ric added some pants he had been wearing on the road, and I threw them in as is.
You know where this is going, don’t you?
I washed his passport. I tried to make some joke about laundering, but…it wasn’t funny. We might have both blown our tops over this one – he at the inconvenience and me with the frustration that inevitably comes with losing one’s faculties.
Anyway, the passport is being replaced, and so we got on with things. Besides the weather here is too nice to be mad for long, and we hadn’t yet started venturing out.
Jump ahead a week, and we decide to spend an afternoon at the pool.
Bathing suit on. Check. Coverup on. Check. Pool towels. Check. I glanced at my little purse and phone.
“No need,” I told myself, and we closed the door behind us, leaving it unlocked as usual.
The pool temperature was perfect and we followed it up with a hot tub and then we wandered back and sat on the patio to dry off until nature called and I tried to open the door to the RV.
Ric jumped up and tried it (can’t trust me remember). Still locked.
We had no keys and no phone.
Ric remembered a man two rows over who had a rig like ours. He borrowed a key from him, but no luck. He went to the office to borrow a phone and returned with the park manager, who just happened to have a ladder. By now, we’d drawn a crowd. (Not much happens in RV parks, apparently.)
“Someone has to crawl through the garbage chute,” Ric said.
Now Ric is a self-confessed short, fat Viking, so he was out. Dave, who owns the other Alfa, stands a head taller than Ric and also has a sizeable girth. I am tall, and big-boned (wink, wink) and lack the muscle power to pull myself up.
We all looked at the manager. Tall and lanky, as the proverbial string bean, he won the silent vote.
“Really?” Thomas asked. “Are you sure?”
“You got a better idea?”
“Right. Up I go.”
Head, arms and shoulders disappeared.
“Anyone need any pepper?” Thomas called out. The garbage chute opens onto the back of the kitchen counter beside the stove. “Oh, and knives. Nobody warned me about the knives.”
“Watch out for the knives,” I offered.
Then he stopped, legs still protruding from the chute.
“I need to rest for a moment,” he said letting out a sigh.
I looked at his big boots but thought likely it’s too late to ask him to remove them.
Then he was gone, up onto the counter and through to the door.
“Give me your number Thomas,” I told him; “and I’ll send you these pics.”
“Well,” he smiled. “If I had known it was this easy to get girl’s numbers, I would have broken into people’s RV’s earlier.”
We thanked him profusely.
“No thank you!” he insisted. “It’s been a rough week; this just made my day.”
We all blamed it on the full moon.
Writer, avid reader, former educator, and proud grandmother, currently experiencing life through the lens of ME/CFS. Words are, and always have been, a lifeline. Some of the best adventures, I'm discovering, take place in the imagination.