It was a beautiful and crisp fall morning. And, it was Monday. I awoke to the noise of excited birds and hide-and-seek sunrays. Lying in bed, I thought about all the fun things I was going to do this day. No school and no work. Boy, was I going to have fun.
Some orange juice in the breakfast room along with a ritualistic reading of the paper would start the day off right. There would be no rush, as I had the whole wonderful day before me.
After my juice and read¬ing, it would be off to break¬fast at Kim and Jenny’s Cafe’ in the Minyard’s Shopping Center on Wheatland Road in Duncanville. Buttered
pan¬cakes, two eggs and bacon would last me until a late lunch at La Madeline’s on Preston in north Dallas.
My day would be spent looking through a bookstore in DeSoto, strolling the Galleria, and visiting the public library on Mountain Creek Parkway in hopes the screen¬play I ordered had arrived.
When you are “kinda old,” you tend to wear what is comfort¬able, and dress much more casually than if there were visitors in the house. If fact, I dress so comfortably that all I wear is my underwear. Because there is no one to dress for or maintain a pre¬tense toward, I do most of the house cleaning, writing, phone conversation, and pro¬ject work wearing nothing but my “fruit of the looms.” My degree for sophisticated attire has been greatly improved, since before I moved into the house I did all my “stuff’ in the buff.
I was always comfortable about my dress, feeling quite safe and secure behind thick wooden doors and excellent bolt locks, supported by a state-of-the-art burglar alarm system.
As I got out of bed, reading the paper became of such an interest to me that I forgot the orange juice and headed direct¬ly to the front door, where my morning paper rested enticing¬ly about 20 feet from the steps outside. I unlocked the door and disarmed the burglar alarm, allowing myself 30 sec¬onds to retrieve my paper before the alarm would reset automatically.
Out the front door I streaked, with the intent to reach the paper and arrive back inside the front door within my 30-second allot¬ment. The heavy sprinkled grass slowed my speed as blades of wetness clung to my ankles and proceeded to crawl toward my knees with each thrust¬ing step.
Just as I grabbed the paper, my neighbors’ garage door opened and out came their car. Caught like a deer in the headlights, I jumped toward my lone front yard tree, placing it between the slow-backing car and myself. Remembering my camouflage training in the military, I attempted to hide three feet of middle-age nakedness behind two feet of tree. I could either hide my rear or hide my stomach. My stomach, ripe with navel, encompassed by hair, and laden with lint must have been a heart¬breaking experience for the neighbor to witness. I just shut my eyes, and hoped my pooched-out stomach would somehow go unnoticed.
Finally the car departed, and I was able to clutch the paper while sprinting toward the front door. But before I arrived on the porch, a mysti¬cal breath of wind beat me there and slammed the door shut. Just as the door closed I heard the alarm arm itself.
There I stood, wet grass to my knees, wearing my once white underwear.
It is a lonely feeling standing at your own front door, locked out, wearing nothing but your underwear. But with a clear mind and goosed bump legs, I planned my course of action. I would go next door to my neighbors and explain the situation. They were a wonderful young couple with a 4-year-old son. I had seen the husband leave earlier, but the wife and son must still be there.
Hiding behind the unfold¬ed newspapers, I dashed from my porch to my tree to my garbage can to the neighbors’ garbage can to their tree and then to their porch.
I just hoped another neighbor had not seen my flight and alerted the police to my plight.
I rang the bell and sud¬denly a tiny face appeared from behind the window curtain to gaze upon my discom¬fort. “Mommy, there is a naked man on our porch.”
Startled by this announcement of my pres¬ence, I placed the sports page on my top half and the classi¬fieds on my bottom half. An attractive lady’s face appeared at the window and broadened into a large smile. I swore I could hear a faint laugh. The door opened and I went in. My story spilled out, as my nakedness remained behind wrinkled damp, news¬papers. Then we heard a car pull up and a small voice yelled, “Mommy, Daddy came back home.”
After the police left and the alarm company’s lock¬smith had gotten me back in my house, I began to feel bet¬ter. I just hoped the neighbor¬hood had not been alerted to the occurrences of the day.
I share a communal mail¬box with six other neighbors. We have individual boxes, but share the same mailbox location. I have met most of my neighbors, but one neigh¬bor is located a little distance around the corner and I had not met them.
The next morning, as fate would have it, that unknown neighbor and I arrived at the mailboxes at the same time. The conversation went some¬thing like this. “Hi, my name is Durhl and I live across the street.” “Glad to meet you, my name is Bob and I live around the corner. Say, do you know where that guy lives that locked himself out of his house yesterday in his underwear?” “No, but I heard he moved out of the neighborhood early this, morning.” “Well, so long, have a good day” “Yeah, same to you.”
I walked across the street toward the house under a beautiful, warm sun. A gentle breeze stirred the collar of my parka that covered my flannel shirt and insulated undershirt. My several layers of pants made it difficult to walk, especial¬ly with rubber boots. But one must be prepared. You never know when you are going to get locked out of your house.
Durhl Caussey is a syndicated columnist who writes for papers across America. He can be reached at this paper or dcaussey@sbcglobal.net.