the unexpected visitor

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 19, 2017

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Submitted: November 19, 2017



The Unexpected Visitor


Have you ever had a near-death experience? I mean down-to-the-wire life or death. A moment where you rethought everything. Your whole life flashed before your eyes, and you knew, momentarily, that you were for sure a goner. I have, and it was, utterly, terrifying!

It was August  4, 2016. Life as I knew it almost ended. Every detail of that dreadful day is forever burned in my memory. It all happened on a midsummer Thursday afternoon. I was chilling at Grandma Patty’s house. We had baked some chocolate chip cookies, watched a Hallmark movie or two, and ate some delicious mushroom and beef pizza. We, basically, just lazed around the house all day long.

Then, my dad called and asked if  my little sister Katy and I could stay the night at Grandma’s house, because he wanted to take Brandy (my step-mom) on a date. No big deal, right? Regular stuff going on, right? Right. I distinctly remember getting really excited, because, yes, at 16 years old at the time, I still got excited to stay at my dear Grammys. (I still do now). Midway into our lazy do-nothing day, my Grandpa Scotty called and informed us he was taking us ladies out to dinner. YUM!!!  

I soon realized that I was not properly dressed for the world.  I glanced down and examined my attire. I was wearing water-wader gray sweat pants with a little hole in the left leg, a gray t-shirt (gray-on-gray, actually, totally not on fleek) that I would certainly never wear in public, and purple flip flops. My hair was a mess, and I had zero makeup on. I was perfectly fashionable for an unenergetic day and definitely not ready for the public eye. I could’ve landed myself on the worst dressed list of America. I had to fix myself before the the public would go blind.

I was in a predicament. Being afoot due to my car breaking down (darn faulty alternator!), my Grandma Patty let me kindly borrow her big ol’ Suburban to drive the whole 3.5 miles to my house to get the necessities to make myself presentable. On the way to my house, I jammed out to some tunes, pulled into the driveway, got out, and made my way inside. As I opened the door, my grandma called and said, “Grandpa is heading home, so you are going to have to hustle.”

I hurriedly grabbed a nice pair of jeans, tennis shoes, a gray and teal shirt, my makeup bag, and my straightener. I flew out the back door and jumped into the car, turned the key, and nada. The Suburban wouldn’t start.

I called my grandma and delivered the news. She said, “Call your dad, and ask if you can drive the old farm Blazer.” I proceeded in doing so, and he said, “Sure, go ahead. Easy on the brakes, though, kid.” Ugh! No! I definitely didn’t want to drive that contraption.

The old farm Blazer is a car my dad used as a work vehicle, to check cows in, and to haul various farm supplies. It is dirty, all green, banged and dented up, and missing the passenger side front mirror. The brakes are horrid, it doesn't start most of the time, and it has this awful smell that just won't go away.

But, desperate times called for desperate measures. I marched my way over to that death trap and climbed inside. So far, so good. I cranked the key, and it went, “Rrrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrr, VROOOM,”  firing to life with a sputter. Score! I was on my way.

As I pushed the brake, I felt a movement. I put the car in park to get a closer look. As I bent down, the movement shot up my leg. I suddenly realized the movement was a mouse, and it was in my pant leg! This was the moment I began to freak out: I mean a screaming-and-kicking freak out.

“THERE IS A MOUSE IN MY PANT LEG!” I shrieked. I did what any sensible person would do. I got the heck out of dodge. Or, so I planned. While this mouse was still brutally attacking me, I was kicking the steering wheel while simultaneously trying to get the door open.

In all of the excitement, I had forgotten the door couldn't be opened from the inside. I had to roll the window down. Once I remembered this minor detail, I tried blindly to find the button. My finger made contact and the unrolling process began. Process. Yes, I said unrolling process. This car was so unreliable. Instead of just rolling down at a normal speed, all I heard was a steady “Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” The slowest ever, I tell you. The mouse and I  seemed to momentarily stop our battle to watch the window creak down.  I finally got the window rolled down enough to reach over and yank the door handle. I flung the door open and ran as far away from that horrific scene as fast as I could while screaming hysterically.

I broke down into full freak-out mode in the middle of my yard. “I just had a mouse in my pants!” I frantically yelled and wildly gesticulated to no one in particular, still not entirely over the fright. I knew I looked crazy, but I didn’t care. You see, it got worse. That vehicle, that death rig, was my only means of transportation, unless I wanted to walk. I had to get back in that thing.

I marched back over while mentally preparing myself. I stuck one foot in and quickly pulled it back out. My heart was pounding. I grabbed a nearby stick and swiped and swatted all around, because there was no way I was repeating that experience. I thought the coast was clear, so I shakingly climbed back inside. My heart went “thud, thud, thud” against my chest, and I began to break a sweat. I made sure the window was rolled all the way down so a quick getaway was available, if needed. I started the car and put it in drive, bouncing down the gravel road.

Upon return to Grandma’s, I vowed to never set foot in that Blazer again. As I jumped out I swear I heard a faint “squeak” from the passenger seat, I didn't know if it was mouse for “goodbye” or “until we meet again.”


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