The Universe Messes With Hick

Gotta say, I'm glad to be off The Universe's hook. It's Hick's turn to be messed with. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Saturday evening, I was ready for Hick to be home at his usual time, around 5:00. With the recent time change, I thought he might show up later. An extra hour of daylight is nothing to sneeze at for a flea market business. I held off on starting his supper. It was going to be quite simple, anyway. Just a couple of hot dogs cooked in the oven, Ruffles potato chips, and baby carrots with dip. Ten minutes, tops, for preparation.

When Hick wasn't home by 5:25, I called. Just to get an idea of his ETA. Was it worth sitting down with my scratchers, or was his arrival imminent? His phone rang several times, but didn't go to voice mail. I thought maybe he was nearly here, and in the dead zone down by Mailbox Row. I usually get voice mail if he's at his SUS2.5, because he doesn't get good reception inside. From my phone, anyway, though he calls in to the FFL people to verify if customers can legally purchase his highly-regulated items.

I didn't send a text. I went to change into my scratcher-scratching clothes. Of course my phone rang. It was Hick, saying he had a customer, but would be leaving soon. I told him no big deal. I wouldn't be starting his supper until after 6:30. It takes Hick 30 minutes to drive home. And at least 15 minutes to put his wares inside, and lock up his units.

This timing would work out fine. I'd have Hick's supper ready for him to take to his recliner and watch the new season of Storage Wars that came on at 7:00. Hick loves that show! It's what got him started with his flea market business(s). And now it's back.

At 6:30, Hick arrived. I finished my current scratcher, and put his hot dogs in the oven while he went outside with little puppy Pepper, who has been LET LOOSE from his back-porch pen to live like a regular dog on the grounds of our hillbilly mansion. I got Hick's plate ready with the baby carrots. Set out the hot dog buns and chips and mustard. I was getting ready to spoon the dip onto the plate at 6:48 when Hick came in the kitchen door.

"I cain't remember nothin'! A guy from the storage units just called, and said I didn't close the door on my shop! I'm glad he called. I've got to go lock it up!"

"Well. Your supper will just sit here until you get back. You're going to miss your show."

"Yeah. There ain't nothin' I can do about that. I have to go."

Poor Hick. I had everything timed just right for his Saturday evening. The Universe thought otherwise. Hick got back home at 7:43.   

"Were you speeding? That's a pretty fast trip there and back!"

"No. I wasn't speeding. I just got to thinking, I have a buddy who lives five minutes from the flea market. I bet he would have drove over there and locked up for me. But it's done now. I'd been moving my stuff in, closing up, when a kid (actually a young adult, which Hick calls 'kids') come up wanting to buy somethin'. I went in with him, and a couple of my buddies carried my stuff in for me. That threw off my routine, and I didn't lock up like I usually do."

It was the big door, the outside pull-down garage type door that he'd left up. The regular front door in the wall of his storefront was locked. So nobody was going to walk in and help themselves. But you don't want your metal security door left open on a Saturday night. 

That's for sure!

Lucky for Hick, there were TWO episodes of the new season of Storage Wars. He got to see the end of the first, and all of the second. And all his wares were safe and secure.