This week brought terrible news – teen girl lost her phone. She didn’t know where it was. “Maybe I left it on the bus.” she said. “I know I didn’t take it to guitar lessons.”
I tried calling it. It rang, but not in our house. Plans were made to check the school’s lost and founds.
The next morning, I get a text from my daughter’s phone –
“Hi, I found this phone in the street and am trying to get it back to its owner”
My first thought was “Hooray! Good people!”
Then I realized I’d have to go get it from a stranger. A stranger who started texting me the address where he found it. And misspelled words. I’d have to get the phone from a completely unknown person who couldn’t spell and might actually want my address.
Needless to say, my brain went from “Good people!” to “Psychopath serial killer trying to lure me to my doom!” in about 2.5 seconds.
So I called my husband, and tried to explain to the man why he had to go pick up his daughter’s phone without sounding like a crazy woman. He told me to have the person text him the address. The person then texted me the address instead.
A very familiar looking address.
I suddenly felt sheepish. The person I instantly put into the serial killer who lures people to their deaths in the guise of a nice person trying to return their phone….
…was one of my next-door neighbors, whose biggest crime to date has been talking too loudly one night while sitting on their patio.
Remind me to not even start watching “Dexter”. I don’t think my brain could handle it.
