Blame the Cloud
Every Silver Lining Has One
By Les Tanner
The other morning, as I was trying to wash a bit of toothpaste out of my eye, it occurred to me to wonder why mishaps occur in bunches. Sometimes they come in day-long stretches, sometimes they last a whole week. Or a whole life.
Is it genetic? The way the wind is blowing? My astrological sign? Or is some unworldly being tampering with my life?
It seems that I am not the only one who suffers from this phenomenon. My friend Judy Lowe, who has asked to remain anonymous, is convinced that there is a cloud that hovers near her, no matter where she is, which is responsible for many of the things that go wrong in her life. This may well be, considering the number of times she calls and says she can’t play pickleball that day because…well, just because.
When she does make it to the gym in Caldwell for a few games, and if she happens to be having a bad day, she blames it on her cloud. She wants to play better but is sure the cloud will just continue to darken, even though I console her that her game can’t possibly get worse.
The more I think about it, the more I have begun to wonder if her cloud may have split into two identical parts, as though it were a living being, and she shared it with me inadvertently. Or on purpose? I doubt it. I’ve known my nameless friend too long to believe that of her.
But something must explain why so many things happen to me. I don’t mean ordinary stuff like wearing different colored socks to a formal dance or leaving the car keys in the refrigerator. That happens to everyone, doesn’t it? I’m talking about events that require some kind of, uh…meterological interference.
“May I help you?” asked the woman, one of two in the otherwise empty DMV office.
“I surely hope so. I need to register a vehicle that recently came into my possession.”
I was dressed as usual in blue workman’s clothing (I have four sets). In one shirt pocket was a collection of pens, pencils, small tools, and a plethora of odds and ends that filled the pocket to overflowing.
“All we need is a photo ID,” said the woman.