Nancy and I finished some yard work when I noticed the wheelbarrow had cracked around the mounting bolts. We decided to throw it out since we had another one anyway.
“I’ll bring it to the curb,” I said.
Nancy opened two beers and put snacks out. She got these new pretzel/cracker things that are awesome.
It was easier to steal them off Nancy’s plate instead of reaching my hand all the way into the bag.
The doorbell rang. I unsuccessfully tried to chew down what was in my mouth before opening the door.
A gentleman in his 40s wearing a black t-shirt was on the stoop.
“Hi, I don’t mean to bother you but is that your wheelbarrow in the street?”
I chewed away and nodded ‘yes.’
“Are you throwing it out?”
‘Yes’ nod, again.
He hesitated. I couldn’t blame him. He was the only one talking.
“Would you mind if I took it?” he asked.
I shook my head ‘no.’
“Uh…” he looked around the way people do when they think they’re being pranked, “…ok, I just wanted to make sure it was alright to take it.”
Another ‘yes’ nod with a reassuring smile.
He shrugged and turned to go get it.
It dawned on me about the cracks in it and I wanted him to be aware –
“Hold on,” I called out.
He came back up the stoop, “Yeah?”
“The bolts.”
That was it.
The letter B. That God damned letter B.
That was all that was needed to launch a pretzel shard onto his shoulder.
I watched it soar like a punt and land delicately on that black t-shirt.
“The what?” He asked.
He didn’t see it.
He watched my tongue furiously jam the remainder of what was in my mouth into the gaps on the side of my gums before I spoke again.
I avoided letters that could cause another misfire and spoke slowly and carefully, “The mounting hardware has made its way through.”
“What?” (Even I knew how absurd that sounded.)
To play it safe, I held my hand in front of my mouth and talked into my palm. “The bolts cracked the wheelbarrow. It should be repaired.”
He did that ‘look around’ thing again. “That’s ok, I’ll fix it.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off that piece of food on his shoulder.
Guilt overcame me.
I slowly raised my finger to point at it and confess that I spat on him.
He watched my hand slowly rise.
When it got to his shoulder’s height, I wimped out.
He waited.
I didn’t know what to do with my outstretched finger.
An eternity of dread passed.
Then it dawned on me. I raised it a few more inches and pointed at the wheelbarrow behind him.
“It’s right there,” I said.
He looked at it, then me, then it, then me. “What, the wheelbarrow?!”
‘Yes’ nod.
Incredulously, “Uh, yeah, that’s what we’ve been talking about…”
It was then that I resigned myself to the fact that that gooey piece of pretzel would ride home with this man.
I said nothing more, turned and went back into my house. I imagined the man spotting it when he got home and flicking it off with his finger.
For certain he will know where it came from.
I sat back down and Nancy asked me who was at the door. “It was nobody,” I said.