It was time to pick up the new couch,and Howard was back from Disney World. Of course, no simple journey to the furniture store would be complete without a few stops along the way. First up, the gas station.
Howard jumped out, leaving the door open so we could talk. While he explained what poor gas mileage the truck got – so much that it ran out of gas on his way to Disney – I realized he’d left the motor running. Pointing it out seemed only to amuse him.
“No,” I said. “It’s in big bold letters on the sign. TURN OFF ENGINE.”
For some reason he argued the safety margin in filling up a tank with a still running motor was negligible. Me sitting in the car that might blow up was a bit closer to the margin than I was comfortable with, so I turned off the key.
Then we had to stop at one of his work events. I’ve mentioned Howard works for a liquor distributor. In conjunction with the Super Bowl they were sponsoring a celebrity autograph session at a local liquor store. The celebrity:
Some guy who tastes Jack Daniels for a living.
I once had a friend who tasted Pepsi syrup one summer during college. Seemed like the same thing to me, but the crowd – the largest Howard had ever seen at this particular store, - about six, and consisting almost entirely of his co-workers – treated this guy like the messiah.
The guy signed a bottle of Jack that Howard had had engraved for his newborn son. He plans to present it to the boy on his 21st birthday. Klassy!
Well, no small favor goes unpunished. Even after helping him hang his new 55 inch telly, I’m not off the hook. It seems I somehow committed to watching the Super Bowl with him. I don’t even care about the Super Bowl.
“We’ll just watch the commercials,” he said.
Does that mean I can go home in between?
The only saving grace – he promised to order food. God knows I’m not eating anything prepared in that kitchen.