The story is about finding the front half of my car this morning buried under a pile of cardboard boxes. It isnít much of a story, but thatís not the problem. As you know, I have no trouble telling stories that have no point or meaning or beginning, middle and end. My whole life is one dull interlude after another, so thatís not why Iím struggling with telling this one. Itís that I donít know how to tell it.
Scenario number one: When I went out to the garage to get my car this morning, all I had in mind was driving it directly to the Saturn dealer and getting them to fix the broken turn signal. So you can imagine my dismay when I found a pile of empty cardboard boxes strewn all over the front half of the car. They had toppled for no apparent reason, except to aggravate me a little further. Whoever is in charge of annoying me is doing an excellent job lately.
Version two: You know, it probably serves me right. I donít throw things away, even empty boxes, and my garage is stacked with the packing crates that all my now defunct printers and VCRs and many, many other appliances and devices came in. Itís a big garage, and I have a small car, so it didnít seem like a big deal. I had some vague notion that one day Iíd break up all the cardboard for the recycler, but that never seemed especially urgent. Until today, that is, when I found a dozen or so boxes fallen off their piles, with most of them landing on the hood of my car.