They said that the deep lines in the old woman’s face told a story, but what kind of a story? It’s not as simple as pressing a piece of paper against her face and then rubbing a crayon against it to reveal the answer. If it were, then everybody would do it.
So I disguised myself as an orderly and kidnapped the old woman in a stolen van. We zipped through traffic, crashing through trashcans until we reached the home of the only blind man I had ever seen. We skidded to a halt in the middle of his front lawn.
I led the old woman to the porch where the blind man was standing with his head tilted up, as if trying to make sense of the commotion. I took his arm by the wrist and pressed his palm against the old lady’s face.
“Read this to me,” I demanded.
“But braille is little dots,” said the blind man. “Not wrinkles. Sorry.”
“What was I thinking of, then?” I asked
“You’re probably just a moron.”
“Hmmm….”
I was so embarrassed that I hid the blind man’s lunch behind foliage before driving over to the payphone that I would use to anonymously report both the stolen van and the stolen old lady.
It was late by the time I got home. My wife, Diane had already eaten dinner and was sitting on the couch watching television.
“How did the job hunt go?” she asked.
“Great!”
I unclipped my tie and hung it over a chair, real neat-like. It had to look good again tomorrow.
“But these things take time.”
