Litter

I have an overactive imagination.  I know you're shocked, but I just couldn't hide it anymore.  I hope this doesn't affect our friendship...

Having an overactive imagination is not a curse, though many people would try to tell you it is.  I mean, sometimes it can be a little disruptive, particularly when you start daydreaming at an inopportune moment.  And sometimes it can be a little disturbing, like when you just know there's a serial killer in your closet.  And since I should have been a boy, sometimes my overactive imagination is a little disgusting, like the incident this morning regarding road kill, which I refuse to explain in more detail.

But for the most part, I believe an overactive imagination is actually a blessing.  It makes life so much more interesting when everything you see gets a story.  What's more, when you're constantly looking for stories in life, you become a much more observant person.  Nothing and no one can escape the constant soap opera taking place in your noggin.

All right, I admit it.  Some of the stories I assign to things are grisly, weird, and/or downright gross.  For instance, almost every time I see a large, black trash bag beside the road, I immediately assume there is a dead body in it.  I'm not sure why this idea haunts me, other than that it makes perfect sense.  Too many people gather up leaves or trash in those scary black bags, and then just leave them wherever they drop them.  So why wouldn't a killer leave the remains of his latest victim in plain sight, where no one would think to investigate it for who knows how long?!?!

Maybe I should have warned you that this was going to be a gross entry.  I'll move on to happier things.  Or different things, at least.

My parents live in a rather old, upstanding neighborhood, which is populated largely by old people.  Ergo, that neighborhood is a rather quiet one.  But one day, when I was visiting from college, I decided to go to McDonald's.  This is not an unusual decision for me.  I hopped in my car and began the familiar journey.

What was special about this last-second trip to McDonald's was the perfect ammunition provided for my hyperactive brain.  As I was driving out of my neighborhood, I got stuck behind a huge, 80's Lincoln.  This is also not unusual -- old people, remember?  That's what I assumed, anyway, since the Lincoln was definitely going about 22 miles per hour.  About the time I had dismissed the whole affair as a nuisance that was keeping me from the salty goodness of piping hot McD's fries, the Lincoln creeped to a halt.  It just stopped.  In the middle of the road.

My immediate thought was that someone in the car must be having a heart attack.  Don't ask me why my logic leaps the way it does-- even I don't understand it.  But that's what I assumed.  So I was patting my pockets, looking for my phone, when I noticed movement.  Someone opened the door on the driver's side.

Now my thoughts were gearing towards whether or not I was about to get mugged by an 80-year-old man who hated little gold Saturns tailgating him.  But no one got out of the car, and I relaxed.

As I watched, a hand appeared, holding a white plastic bag from Food Lion.  This hand placed the bag gently in the middle of the road.  Then, the driver's side door closed, and the Lincoln drove away, going about 40 mph now.

Out of instinct, I followed the car, choosing to investigate the bag later.  You see, I could think of only two reasons to gently place a bag in the middle of the road: abandoning a kitten, or dropping off some drugs.  Either thing required that I get the Lincoln's license plate number, to give to the police when I made the report.

You may think I am crazy, but I did follow that Lincoln until I got their tag numbers.  I wrote them down on the back of a Walgreen's receipt.  And then I went to McDonald's, because why should crime keep me from cheap, delicious fast food?

But on my way back, I stopped at that place on the road.  I stepped out of my car and retrieved the bag, putting it on my passenger seat with a growing sense of importance.  I was about to catch criminals red-handed.  There was no doubt about it.

I waited until I got home to open the bag, sure that I would find something to substantiate my well-thought-out theories.  But there was no helpless kitten, and no suspicious powders or herbs.  There was just... trash.

The overwhelming disappointment I felt at this anticlimactic discovery is impossible to explain.  But to this day, I still believe that someone took the drugs from the bag before I got there.  I even kept the Walgreen's receipt, in case any new evidence came to light.  I still have it somewhere.

For those of you who are aspiring to grow an overactive imagination like mine, don't worry.  The stories don't always have to be so elaborate.  In fact, the event that inspired this whole, long post occurred just this morning, and was about three seconds long.

There was a measuring tape crumpled up in a pile on the road, along with what I think was a pair of scissors.  The way my brain chose to explain this odd litter was to imagine this scene:

The day is sunny and warm, even though it's winter in Tennessee.  They're in a classic Chevy pick-up, she and the man she loves.  The windows are cracked, and she can feel the wind in her face, feel it whipping away all the hours she'd spent slaving over other people's clothing.  They'd taken the joy out of sewing.  She is a seamstress no more!  Gathering up the measuring tape from the floor, she tosses it out the open window, never caring for the scissors caught up in the mess.  And sharing a carefree laugh, they drive away into the sunset.

And yes, I imagined that in the space of three seconds.

I think that was brought on by PinkFriend.  She used to sew all the time, all kinds of wonderful dresses and such.  But now she works in alterations for brides, and not only does she limit her sewing to work, but now she also despises the wedding industry.  She needs to throw her measuring tape out the window of her cute little PT Cruiser.

Due to the fact that I have talked about just about everything I wanted to talk about, it is now time to close this post.  I'm not sure why the stories I've told you today all have to do with litter on roads.  Who can explain the imagination?

But if you ever notice that I haven't been posting, and you suspect that I might be dead, promise you'll pull over and check those black bags beside the road.  I would hate it if someone just assumed my dead body was leaves.