My Plumber Ran Over Bigfoot!
Everything's connected. In a strange way, every detail, every little thing that happens to people is connected in a weird sorta' fashion. The circle of life, the odd connectivity that unites us all in a "what the hell's up with that" sorta' sensation.
My wife dropped a makeup brush into the sink. She, being much more handy than I am, took the trap out, yet the brush traveled further along its journey. To oblivion, I guess, to join the world where missing socks go. No matter.
Time to call in the plumber.
He showed up, chattier than Cathy. Friendly to the point where you wondered if you should start a neighborhood watch, he carried on, postponing his next appointment. He talked up my wife about the comfortability of humidity in the house. Being more social than I, she put up with it and nodded and "ahhed" accordingly. I--like all writers--eavesdropped from a safe distance, zoning out , but when he brought up "Bigfoot," he had me.
Last year, the plumber went to a baseball game with his wife and ran over Bigfoot. Something huge, hairy, scary, raced out in front of his truck and he ran it down. Hopping out, he found no trace of anything, other than a messed up front end of his vehicle. But he knew it was the big fella'. In return, the plumber gave Bigfoot a few back problems, I'm sure.
Now, I don't know how tightly wrapped plumbers are. They make more money than I do, but that ain't saying anything. But I believe him. The universe is a funky dancer, gyrating wildly while the mind remains a wallflower. I find it odd that I've always hankered to write a Bigfoot novel and actually, I dunno, try to make it readable. I know, right? Goofy. But, I've thrown down my own personal challenge. And for this particular plumber to come into our house--having killed Bigfoot with his four wheel truck of death--well...the fates are telling me Bigfoot's time has come.
I guess I'm saying, listen to your plumbers. They see things. They know things. He's reading my palm next week (and fixing the seal on the upstairs toilet).
My wife dropped a makeup brush into the sink. She, being much more handy than I am, took the trap out, yet the brush traveled further along its journey. To oblivion, I guess, to join the world where missing socks go. No matter.
Time to call in the plumber.
He showed up, chattier than Cathy. Friendly to the point where you wondered if you should start a neighborhood watch, he carried on, postponing his next appointment. He talked up my wife about the comfortability of humidity in the house. Being more social than I, she put up with it and nodded and "ahhed" accordingly. I--like all writers--eavesdropped from a safe distance, zoning out , but when he brought up "Bigfoot," he had me.
Last year, the plumber went to a baseball game with his wife and ran over Bigfoot. Something huge, hairy, scary, raced out in front of his truck and he ran it down. Hopping out, he found no trace of anything, other than a messed up front end of his vehicle. But he knew it was the big fella'. In return, the plumber gave Bigfoot a few back problems, I'm sure.
Now, I don't know how tightly wrapped plumbers are. They make more money than I do, but that ain't saying anything. But I believe him. The universe is a funky dancer, gyrating wildly while the mind remains a wallflower. I find it odd that I've always hankered to write a Bigfoot novel and actually, I dunno, try to make it readable. I know, right? Goofy. But, I've thrown down my own personal challenge. And for this particular plumber to come into our house--having killed Bigfoot with his four wheel truck of death--well...the fates are telling me Bigfoot's time has come.
I guess I'm saying, listen to your plumbers. They see things. They know things. He's reading my palm next week (and fixing the seal on the upstairs toilet).
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