Page 14 - ARRS #582 - The Mystery of the Lost Wallet

Another Random Road Story #582

As soon as the car stopped rolling he pulled his door handle and leaned
against it, in an exaggerated maneuver to get it open. With great
determination he got one leg out. He stood up and dragged his other leg out
like dead weight, balancing his weight while relying heavily on the door for
support. That feat accomplished, he backed up one pace and closed the car
door. He turned around so that the back of his classy “island-type” shirt was
visibly pressed against the rear passenger window where he was just sitting.
Oh man, you’re gonna stand right there, eh? Okay, whatever, dude…
It was dark where we were parked, and on the side of the road appeared to
be a ditch with tall grass.
Whatever.
My internal threat assessment department turned to the traffic whizzing by.
I looked back toward where my customer had been standing. His island
shirt was no longer visible against the window. He had moved a pace
forward, with his back still toward the car. As I was processing this, he leaned
over and disappeared from view. He was far too drunk to be running some
game. Instead, he must’ve lost his balance and fell down into the ditch.
Oh, I’m NOT going out there and picking this guy up out of the ditch…!
I sat turned around in my seat and watched out the rear passenger window.
I saw no sign of my customer.
Something jostled the car.
Still no visible movement outside.
Another jostle from the rear, one that rocked the car harder than the
passing traffic’s wind drag. Suddenly a hand appeared in front of the window,
surprising the shit out of me. (How the hell?!)
The hand retreated and soon a careworn face wearing an expression of
grim determination rose up and up past the window. The face rose until the
island shirt became visible. The island shirt rose until it filled the whole rear
passenger window again.
Good, back to square one.
Somehow the dude had reached the car without me seeing him, and
proceeded to use the door to pull himself upright. In slow motion, after some
fumbling, he got the door open and did his best to get back inside.
When the door opened the overhead light allowed me to assess the
situation: No wet spot on the seat. Dude had grass in his hair, mud on his
clothes, and there was a wet spot on the front of his shorts – which were
unzipped and open at the top, revealing the top of his white underpants.
I stopped myself from laughing at the poor soul, and from bitching about
the mud. It’s the nature of the business, after all. And -mud- on the seat is
better than…