“Don’t open that door!” I shouted. The poor guy who was loading our truck with mattresses jumped back. He was trying to help, but if he had opened the door, all our Home Depot returns would have come tumbling onto the parking lot. I balanced our new lamps on my lap, held back the tidal wave of returns from encroaching on the front seat, and headed with Gary to our latest project. We’re converting a fixer on a golf course to an Air B&B.
Midway there, our tailgate fell off the back of our bruised up truck, narrowly missing an oncoming car. And when we arrived, a little shaken, we discovered that the store gave us a California King instead of the Eastern King we needed. So we strapped it all back up, secured the tailgate, and drove it back to the store, wondering why the guy right behind us in the baby blue Bentley convertible with the cream leather interior, the guy whose car was worth more than both our houses combined, wasn't giving our truck a wider berth.