Last night Greg and I had date night. After an in-depth conversation that consisted of “I don’t know, where do you want to go?” we ended up at a restaurant not worth mentioning (the food was ehh).
By the way, this is me trying to follow a speak-only-if-you-having-something-nice-to-say philosophy. But I will say this: it was a B.Y.O.W. (bring your own whatever) and there was tzatziki sauce on the menu. And that’s all I’m saying.
After seven years of date nights, the evening was comfortable – also known as “predictable”. And that’s okay. Really. No big highs and no big lows is something you come to appreciate “after a certain age”. (All you Y-gens out there will just have to trust me on this.)
It’s after dinner that the evening went a little weird. Not the Tina Fey and Steve Carell-type weird but strange enough for me to call the cops.
We were driving home after dinner when Greg suddenly decided that we should stop for ice cream. And since any guilt-free reason to up my calcium intake is a good reason, I agreed. Whole heartedly. Especially since dinner was, um, less than satisfying.
So we were standing outside the local ice cream parlour – like Dairy Queen only better. And cheaper – indulging in a cone full of yummy soft, vanilla ice cream when I noticed a 20-ish dude walk towards us. He subtly yet obviously looked under one of the picnic tables then turned and walked back in the same direction he’d come. I watched as he walked towards a car (as white as my ice cream) and just stood there nervously smoking his cigarette.
Less than ten minutes later a young woman did the exact same thing. Walked towards us and looked under the same table before walking towards Mr. Pacing Nervously.
As we continued eating our ice cream the entertainment went up a notch when an older lady walked up to me and asked if I knew where a certain address was (Greg told me not to mention the address so this is me being discreet).
Now I realize that under normal circumstances a stranger asking another stranger for an address isn’t weird at all. Except that we were on the street that she was asking about and when I said that I didn’t know where that specific address was but that we were kind of ON THAT STREET, she turned around and walked back towards her companion: a shirt-less, fat bellied man that stood waiting for her across the street. Hands on hips, he made no attempts to hide the fact that he was waiting for her. And she made no attempts at even PRETENDING to look for the address.
As she walked towards him I saw her shrug in his direction. You know the shrug. The one that says, “now what do I do?”
I turned to Greg and said, “Was that a code question? Because I don’t think I gave her the right code answer.”
Meanwhile the younger, picnic table scouting couple were still pacing feverishly around their car.
Obviously Greg and I had happened upon the drop location of some questionable dealings. And obviously I looked like I had something to do with all this.
Even though Greg told me not to, I called the cops from my car on our way home (I can’t ALWAYS listen to him!) and told them about what we had just accidentally witnessed.
And it’s a good thing it wasn’t a life or death situation because I was transferred three times. And repeated the story three times. Which explains why I remember the details so clearly. (Except I don’t think the police were interested in how delicious our ice cream was – which I don’t get since it was like 100 degrees out.)
All this to say that if anything happens to me, this is my story. If I turn up dead you should probably look for creepy-looking people who hang around ice cream parlours.