Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Rotting flesh

Hubby had to have a blood test, so I sat in the car and watched people come and go into the medical building. One older gentleman exited a red van in the aisle in front of where we parked. A younger blonde woman helped him toss canvas camping chairs and a bed roll out of the van and onto the pavement in the parking space next to theirs. They left the driver's door wide open.

I was waiting for someone to whip a car into that space, unaware of the camping equipment and open car door. Close calls a couple of times! But fifteen miutes later the old man got out. The gal told him he could leave because someone was on the way. The old guy hobbled off.

When Bill returned I told him half a dozen imagined scenarios. He listened and said, " Hmm, I think she just has a flat tire and is saving that space for the person coming to fix it.

He was right of course! Which ticked me off. I like it when my imagination runs wild.

Many years ago we were camping. A mid-twenties guy set up a tent across from us. For two days I observed him looking sad and somber sitting by the campfire. Then he disappeared, and we didn't see him at all for three days.

A foul odor drifted across the road from his campsite. I told Bill the guy looked deeply depressed, and I was going to go snoop around, and if I got caught I would say I was looking for firewood.
I skittered across the road and spied a scorched letter in the dead embers in the fire ring. I picked it up and read it. It was a Dear John letter. Aha!

I rushed across the way to tell Bill the guy had probably commited suicide and the smell was no doubt the dead man inside the tent. Bill told me to mind my own business. "Nothing is as you think. The guy is fine."

"I'm telling you I smell rotting flesh!" I insisted, flapping the charred letter at him.

That night a pick up truck pulled into the guy's camp site...and he exited the truck with his young son. He unzipped his tent and yelled, "Damn! That raw hamburger's rotten. All the ice melted in the cooler."

I hate it when Bill is right!



Pat Wahler said...

Moral to the story: Always listen to Bill! :-)

Kathy's Klothesline said...

I hate it when HeWho is right, but it is not very often!

Val said...

Heh, heh! I'm wondering what would have happened if that guy came back while you were reading his supposedly-disposed-of letter. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were dead..."

Susan said...

Oh gosh, Linda. That was quite an experience. That rotten hamburger must have been bad enough to gag a maggot. Hope you have a blessed week! Thanks for all your visits and comments on my blog. Love when you stop by. Susan

DUTA said...

Men are usually more practical than women in their way of thinking. However,sometimes things do happen and definitely require our alertness and our minding "others' business".

Sioux Roslawski said...

I never admit when my husband is right. At least I TRY to avoid it. ;)

How often is Bill right? Two or three times in the decades you've been married?

Connie said...

Hahaha! I like it when your imagination runs wild too--makes for a better story even if Bill is right. :-)