EXador, Is That You?

The other day I found myself in receipt of an email from my landlord notifying me that she wanted to enter my premises, in order that she may conduct a final inspection of some recent renovations.

A perfectly reasonable request, presumably proffered prior to payment of the tradesmen who conducted the work. The thing is that when you routinely retire at 6am or later a 9am wake up call can harsh ones mellow a tad. But hey, it is not my landlords fault that I keep weird hours.

And so it was that my alarm went off about one hundred and forty minutes in to my sleep cycle. My plan was to flee, so that the inspection may be conducted unfettered by the cantankerous disposition of this sleep deprived serf.

I quell the alarm, get dressed, brush my teeth and throw on a ballcap to hide my Einstein hair. As I mention, I had a plan to flee, but had not yet quite fleshed out the destination of my flight. I stand on the street and light a smoke with all the bravado of a confused tourist.

Bleary eyed, uncaffinated, and slightly confused by the odd positioning of the sun in the sky, I pondered my options amidst the insufferable din of childlike joy emanating from some horrible entity known as a "day care".

It was then that I heard the voice call out. Initially I looked behind me, thinking that the voice was calling to someone else, but no. For a brief instant I thought it was my landlord, wishing a word about the inadequacy of my ability to work the land.

I begin to formulate a story about how the condition of my bathroom may appear filthy, but it is actually an art installation, a tribute to a Chevron station I visited in Arkansas in 1985, and please don't touch anything. No, I'm serious, don't touch anything unless you've recently been inoculated at your local travel clinic. Fortunately, I've had my jabs, and I am one of the few people who can enter my bathroom safely.

But, alack it was not my landlord.

It was EXador. A woman that I spent ten years with, a few of them married. I had not spoken with her in nine years. She was closing in on me with an envelope in hand, and I briefly considered fleeing, confident that my superior knowledge of local shortcuts and back alleys would make up for my lack of conditioning, but I was betrayed by a dearth of coffee, indecisive at a crucial moment.

In the instant that she bore down upon me I wondered what could be in that envelope? Surely all the divorce papers were long ago signed and the chances of a wrongful death suit involving the cat were remote.

I was stunned, flummoxed, and dumbfounded. She said " I know this is weird but, I want to give you these".She handed me the envelope. "I'm sorry about your father" In my daze, I briefly glanced behind her, hoping to get a glimpse of Jim Morrison or a dead Indian spirit or both. The moment was surreal, and the envelope contained pictures of my own family and some precious shots of my father. I'm touched that she had been carrying around these pictures for years, mistakenly posessed in a long ago breakup that she felt compelled to one day return.

And today was the day she did that.

Speechless, I watched her walk away, but I wish I hadn't. And thats why you should never go out before you've had a coffee.

Thanks, Elfriede.

That was one of the sweetest things I've ever seen.

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