...and as my wife heads up to bed I think to myself that I should probably clean out the car. It’s a mess, after all. The backseat is littered with rubbish from our trip to the beach.
While I’m working I hear a familiar voice call to me from the darkened driveway “Hello Mister Camp!” — genial and comfortable, my neighbor, the 44th President of the United States approaches with a trash bag in his arms.
“Can I borrow your trash can?” he asks. “We’re getting ready to head out on vacation.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “Just don’t let the missus know I let you see our garage.” I lead him back along the side of our house to the garage door where he waits patiently, making small talk while I try to get the old malfunctioning automatic door open.
Eventually he says “I gotta get going, thanks for your help...” and leaves the bag behind for me to deal with, handing me a broken white dowel he found on the ground to help prop the door open.
“Have a good trip,” I tell him. But he is already gone.
And I have somehow, embarrassingly, managed to trap myself behind the now non-functioning garage door, staring impotently at the broken spar of wood in my hand.