How could it be so close to the due date for the book? Oh yeah, because it’s ALWAYS so close to the due date. I remember it being the day before my Brazil report was due in third grade and I was cutting out pictures from Mom’s World Book Encyclopedia Set. (Don’t do that by the way, you get in trouble.)
((Also, many of you youngsters will need to google what the hell and Encyclopedia Set is.))
Anyway, suffice it to say, that the meme “Nothing Makes Me More Productive than The Last Minute” was made for me. Okay, now to the Factor Story.
“John! I need to go for a walk. This story is killing me!”
“Caitlyn, it’s almost midnight.”
I’m putting on my shoes. “I don’t care, need to go.”
“Well hold on for a minute,” he says as he heads for the garage, “I’m going with you.”
I roll my eyes. Our neighborhood is as safe as Mayberry, well there was that one little incident, but that person is in jail now, so we’re good now.
“John, seriously, I’m fine.”
“Caitlyn, you damn well better wait for me,” he damn near roars.
Well that kind of catches my attention, so I cross my arms and wait.
He comes out of the garage and I’m giggling at his manliness and we go outside through our gate to the wilds of Ladera Ranch. Seriously, this is like Wisteria Lane, but off we go. So now I start talking.
“Caitlyn, you’re yelling.”
“You’re talking about dead bodies in front of the neighbor’s house.”
“You also discussed three different ways to kill a man.”
We keep walking. Now I’m trying to figure out how the heroine is going to get free. “What do you think of this?” I ask John.
“You’re yelling again, this time you’re talking about kicking them in the balls. See that house? Their security light just came on. Walk faster.”
I start thinking again and stop talking.
“John,“ I yell. “There’s a red light following us. It’s between us!”
John sighs deeply. “We’ve been walking for twenty minutes, and you’re just noticing the bicycle light I clipped to my shorts?”
He tugs on my hand and shakes his head. “Keep walking, Honey.”
“Oh my God, that’s must be at a whole family of bunnies back there,” I point. (We have bunnies around our house. Honest.)
He stops and looks down at me, his expression bewildered. “You think the loud sound of the sprinklers system could be rabbits?”
This time he starts laughing. And laughing. And laughing.
“You have one hell of an imagination O’Leary.”
“Hey! I figured out what to do. Let’s get home so I can write,” I want to run. But he insists we walk. He knows I’ll probably trip and fall in my flip-flops without his light and him holding my hand.
He’s probably right.