where’s my sandwich?

I pulled into the parking lot at the World Headquarters of the World Problem Resolution Society and Coffee Klatch at an undisclosed location in Texas. Walter’s pickup was in the lot, but I didn’t see him anywhere around. He wasn’t in the toolshed and he wasn’t in the bunkhouse. Finally I started hollering for him. I heard him yell, “I’m back here. Behind the bunkhouse.”

I walked around behind the bunkhouse and found Walter on his knees with his arm up to the shoulder in the septic tank. “What in blue blazes are you doing, Walter?” I asked.

“I took off my jacket so I could check the tank and somehow I kicked it in when I lifted the lid,” he said.

“Walter, we have extra jackets in the bunkhouse. You know you’re welcome to take one.”

He continued to stir around in the muck as he looked at me with a pained expression on his face. “I know,” he said. “It’s not just the jacket I’m worried about. But it had my sandwich in the pocket and its almost lunch time.”

I could tell it was time to put the coffee pot on the fire and get ready for another session of the World Problem Resolution Society, where we solve the world’s problems one cup at a time.


(Thanks to Gary for reminding me of this.)

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