I return from a weekend trip away to attend a performance of my grandson in a Shakespeare play called The Twelfth Night. Mr. Fixit was left in charge of home repairs and caring for Don.
While I was gone, a conversation between Don and Mr. Fixit went like this:
Don: What room is this one I’m in right now?
Mr. Fixit: Room #17.
Don: Can you write that down for me? I’m expecting a delivery of golf clubs for Kristy, and the delivery guy needs to know which room number.
Mr. Fixit writes down the data on a post-it note and leaves it on a nightstand in Don’s room.
When I return home, I find the post-it note and make an inquiry. Mr. Fixit suggests we get my old golf clubs out of the garage and inform Don the delivery has arrived.
Don: This is not the right bag. It should have been a crate as tall as I am and about a foot wide, with clubs all lined up.
Mr. Fixit: This is all that arrived. Are these clubs yours?
Don: No, they are Kristy’s. It looks like there’s 10 clubs in the bag. That’s about right.
Mr. Fixit: As a matter of fact, there are 11.
Don: Did you pay the delivery guy?
Kristy: Yes, I did. I had leftover pesos from Mexico.
Don: How much?
Kristy: 100 pesos.
Don: That’s about $10. What was his name?
Mr. Fixit: You are the one that made the deal. Don’t you remember his name?
Don: He’s the pro from another city that works here with our 2 pros. I never called him.
Mr. Fixit: You told me you called him yesterday.
Don: No, I didn’t. I said I was going to.
Mr. Fixit: Maybe you forgot you called.
Don: No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t me; I didn’t do it.
Mr. Fixit: Well, they are here now.
Don: They look like they came from a Saturday flea market.
He went from joyful surprise, with eyebrows lifted, that the clubs were delivered, as requested, to discovering that some scammer had delivered flea market quality clubs that don’t look familiar.
Note to Self: Why does this feel like a new low sinking to practical jokes?