Do You Hear What I Hear

I'm managing the fundraiser where we set up a table in front of the grocery store and solicit signups to come pick up people's Christmas trees after the season. Raises money for Scouts, helps the environment, blah blah. All weekend every two hours I'd go facilitate shift changes, make sure everyone does their hours, take care of problems, keep the morale up, and generally coordinate the whole thing over a period of two months with my mad Excel skilz.

I had stuff in the back of my truck and had locked it in so I showed up late and it was raining and I was fumbling with the keys. There are three keys that look like the one for the camper shell. Why the hell are there three keys? I don't even know what the other two are for. And they all look the same. I once offered to take them off but that idea got cut off right quick. Wife hates when people mess with her keys.

DO NOT touch the keys, I was told. Leave them there.

Okay, okay, whatever, I just don't know which is which.

Let me see, she said, and found the right one.

Fine, but what if I'm out somewhere and it's raining, how the hell am I supposed to know which is which but FINE, WHATEVER.

So this weekend I was out there somewhere and it was raining and I had to fumble with these three keys.

One. No.

Two. No.

"Oh, you God damn motherfuckers," I said out loud.

"Don?"

I turned. There was a parent and his young Scout, a fresh-faced eleven year old kid in uniform, ready to do his part to raise funds for the Troop.

Instant demeanor change, hearty greetings all around, let's get going, we set up, they got to work. They did a manful job of ignoring my vehement profanity. But, you know. What a schmuck, huh?