It’s a dull Sunday night in the community where I live. (There’s a lot of dull days around here as far as weather goes, so I could probably get away with not mentioning that ever again)
We find Gene in the middle of the living room. Gene is distraught. he scratches his disheveled hair which becomes more grey with each passing day.
Gene belches loudly and without shame, but that does not change his mood.
He nervously searches through all of his pockets in his leather jacket. Gene is looking furously for something.
He sighs in disgust at himself and wanders over to my room.
“I’ve lost my keys!” he declares to me.
I immediately begin to wonder how it is possible for Gene to lose a bright orange set of keys, he’s not blind by any means…but then again this is Gene we’re talking about here. No sense reasoning it all out.
“Where did you have them last?” I ask him, hoping to jar some grey cells from their sedation.
“I don’t know,” Gene replies sheepishly.
We spend the next two hours retracing Gene’s steps, going everywhere in town where he was earlier in the day. However, no bright obnoxious orange set of keys was to be found.
We return to the apartment and tear the place apart looking for Gene’s foolishly misplaced keys. We also go through every centimeter of Gene’s Buick, just in case he left them somewhere in there.
The evening’s search revealed nothing.
The following morning, I wake up at the break of day and prepare breakfast for myself. If Gene couldn’t wake himself up at a decent hour…he’s on his own. The door to Gene’s room remains closed well past 8:30 a.m.
I head off to work.
By mid morning Gene bursts into my office. “I found them! I found the keys!” he exclaims. “They were in my other pants pocket!”
What a waste of an evening the previous night had been.
Previously on the apartment drama…