trash (pick it up)

Remember Randi? She was my wife's friend of many, many years. They were nearly inseparable. As a matter of fact, I met Randi the same night I met Mrs. Pincus. Randi was the Maid of Honor at our wedding. She was my son's godmother. Now that he's 37, I suppose he has no use for a godmother anymore, but ...no matter... Randi is no longer in our lives.

Randi was single for most of the time I knew her. But she was desperate — desperate, I tell you — to find a husband. She finally found a guy and married him, but the situation was closer to the "Adios Johnny Bravo!" episode of The Brady Bunch in that this guy "fit the suit." He was a dumb guy and Randi sort of coerced him into marriage.

When I say he was "dumb," I really mean he may have been the dumbest human being I ever met in my entire life. I mean "dumb as dirt" dumb. "Dumb as a bag of doorknobs" dumb. "Dumb as a box of rocks" dumb. I mean D-U-M-B dumb. Years ago, we all decided to take a trip to Yankee Stadium in New York. It was Mrs. P, our son, Randi, Fred (Randi's eventual husband), his seven-year old daughter and me. We all piled into my wife's minivan and headed north from Philadelphia. This was a time before GPS and cellphones were still a novelty. Fred decided to take charge. He declared that, being from North Jersey and allegedly familiar with the area, he would navigate our journey and get us directly to Yankee Stadium's doorstep. We pulled out or our driveway as Fred pulled his cellphone from his pocket and dialed.

"Yeah," he began his conversation to the unheard party on the other end, "we're on our way to...uh... you know." He paused while the person on the other end said something. Fred gazed lazily out the window and listened. "Yeah," he repeated, "to... you know. Up to the....uh.... you know." This "back-and-forth went on for several minutes and never — never — were the words "Yankee Stadium" spoken. Finally, Fred hit the "Call End" button and announced, "Yeah, so my friend says 'Get on the New Jersey Turnpike and ask at the toll booth.'" That was his "exclusive insider" plan to get us to New York. My wife glanced back at me in the rearview mirror and I shrugged my shoulders. I reiterate. Fred was dumb.

After Mrs. P and Randi's friendship dissolved, we completely lost touch with Randi and her life. Through mutual acquaintances, we heard that she and Fred had divorced. Randi moved around, remarried and totally changed personalities. (You can read all about it HERE.) We never did hear anything further about Fred.

Until one day many years later....

Our home phone rang and Mrs. P answered. It was a fellow who identified himself as the owner of a local business called Billows Electric Supply, an industrial supply operation with several locations throughout southern New Jersey. The man asked for "Susan Pincus" by name, as though he was reading from something. My wife, still a bit suspicious, confirmed her own identity to the man and asked what this call was in reference to. After all, we had no business whatsoever with an industrial electric supply company. Next, he asked if she knew someone named "Fred Slottman." That was the last name Mrs. P ever expected to hear again — especially from a strange voice on the other end of a mysterious early morning telephone call.

"Yes," she replied," I know Fred Slottman."

"Well," the man said, the tone of his voice dropping slightly, "I believe that Mr. Slottman is dead." That was a weird thing to hear from the owner of an electrical supply company.

He went on to explain that, on this particular morning, when he arrived at his place of business, his dumpster was overflowing with items that had no business being in his dumpster. It appeared that, during the night, someone had unlawfully deposited an abundance (he may have even used the word "shitload") of personal items into his dumpster. There was the remnants of a bed frame, a smattering of clothing, boxes of assorted household items and a ton of miscellaneous paperwork — receipts, warranties, canceled checks and a personal telephone book. He said that it was from this book that he got our phone number.

My wife listened — dumbfounded by what she was hearing. The story began to piece itself together. Fred had died and someone who was in possession of his personal items was looking for a place to dump them without having to pay to have them hauled away. Mr. Billows Electric Supply shows up for work, sees a bunch of crap in his dumpster, starts fishing around for clues and finds a phone book. He starts calling the numbers listed within.

Suddenly, something struck my wife's "inner detective." She interrupted Mr. Billows Electric. "Hang on a second," she said, "You made it all the way to the Ps in the phone book?"

"Yes," he confessed, "We tried all the other numbers starting with A. You're the first person that answered."

There are fifteen letters that precede P in the alphabet. Either Fred didn't know a whole lot of people or everyone in Fred's phone book whose name begins with A through O were avoiding the phone or.... well, I could come up with a dozen more "if" scenarios that still wouldn't make any of this make sense.

Mrs. P told Mr. Billows Electric that she hadn't been in touch with anyone remotely connected to Fred Slottman for many years. She expressed her inability to offer any further assistance and ended the conversation.

She sat with the phone in her hand for a short time and silent shook her head to herself.

And laughed.

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