Most Accidents Happen Close to Home
Aerial photography of my housing development.
I do not say much but I am an outstanding viewer of life. Freudian Slips offers me an avenue to publish thoughts that I would not ordinarily share with others. It is a way to live in the moment and appreciate life for what it is. Life is a magical mystery tour and I am a bus driver on the road to irony.
A funny thing happened by accident on that roadway. I was transporting a client to a specialty shoe store. He needed to be fitted for SAS comfort shoes due to his diabetes. To pardon an expression, feet are a sore subject with aging diabetics. He alternates between humming songs on the radio and peppering me with repeated questions. He outlives his welcome and soon becomes a sore subject with me. I alternate my attention between him and the road.
"Where are we going?" he said.
"I told you. Berlin."
"Why?"
"What did I say five minutes ago?"
He answered his own question. "Shoe store."
"Please don't ask me that question a fourth time."
"Where are we at now?"
"Runnemede, NJ."
"Never heard of it." He seemed befuddled. "Does this town have a Chick Filet? I'm hungry. You took me to Chick Filet last time."
I explained the timeline. "We aren't stopping for lunch this time. I will have you back at your job by noon. I have a busy schedule today. Sorry."
As he digested the delay of gratification, I embarked on a shortcut to the White Horse Pike. It's a ten mile route that will coincidentally take us by my house. During the course of the conversation, he asks about my children, my wife, how much money I make, and any number of inappropriate personal questions. I rebuke him and I am not about to let him know where I live. He would show up for Thanksgiving dinner with three of his friends and a nearly dead squirrel covered in cranberry sauce.
He changes the subject. "My HUD contract is almost up. Maybe I can move out of my apartment and come live with you."
"I don't think so."
"Why not?" he asked.
I explain, "No room at the inn."
"Come on, Joe be honest with me. You probably live in one of those big houses like that." He pointed over to my left. "Betcha you have more than enough room to take me in."
We had gone miles. There are 66,000 people living in my hometown alone. We passed thousands of homes in our travels. God as my witness, he pointed to my development, the identical model six doors down from my actual homestead. I admitted nothing but I took a circuitous route on the return trip. Irony is an accident waiting to happen.
Labels: psychic phenomena, social work
posted by Joe Tornatore | 3:48 PM
8 Comments:
Is it ok for me to laugh at that? Even a little? You and I are definitely both recipients of the 'get the hell outta here' gene. I mean really, what are the chances of him pointing at that moment...
Livewire,
there has to be a better explanation like ESP or the Vulcan mind meld.
Lilly,
you may be right. i use accident, irony, and karma interchangeably.
WIFE! The wife stole my comment. I guess we're married for a reason. Speaking of syncronicity...
RCS
That story creeped me out, and I'm a good 2000 miles away.
Steve,
In this situation, I wish my client did.
I don't blame you. Karma, coincidence, dumb luck, whatever you want to call it, situations like that are quite unsettling.
Reminds me of the time I was talking about a guy I'd fired from work in Washington and how I'd met him in California in Tech School for the Air Force, and how he didn't pass muster as a linguist. The person I'd been talking with and I went into the next room and saw the guy right there. In Texas. Five years later. And he never did return the movies he'd borrowed from me back in California.
Steve,
Freaky. My hairs what have standed on end. If you read through this blog by pageloads you will find that the situation you described is what this blog is all about. Welcome to the matrix.
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