I checked the junk drawer in the kitchen. I rummaged through the tool box in the car. I scoured the shelves in the shed. No luck.
The thing is, I know for a fact that I own at least three sets of screwdrivers.
It is like that around here. Whenever I am looking for something, I can’t find it but when I am not looking for it, I find two or sometimes three of them.
The reason we cannot find anything is that we have too much of everything and not only are we not finding things we know we have but we are finding things we know we do not have.
Not long ago, I found a rototiller in my shed that I know is not mine. For one thing, we don’t have a garden. For another, we never had one. Not only that but the shed was empty when we moved in – so it was not left to us by the previous owner.
I could only draw one conclusion. Not only was someone stealing things from our shed – but they were stashing things in there as well.
So I set up a critter-cam, a remote camera triggered by a motion detector to monitor the comings and goings in my shed.
Within the week, the mystery was solved. The tape revealed a car pulling into our driveway when we were not at home. A man got out and opened his trunk. He removed an object and lugged it into the shed. He then lugged something else out of the shed and put it in his trunk before he drove away.
I recognized the car and the man as well. So I called him up; my old buddy Stan.
“Are you breaking into my shed?”
“Why do you ask?”
“So you admit it,” I told him.
“I never broke into your shed.”
“Then how did you get in? I locked the door.”
“I borrowed your spare remote door opener.”
(So that’s where it went.)
“What’s the problem,” he asked, “you have three of almost everything?”
“But I don’t have what I need because you keep taking it.”
“Hey, I return everything I borrow.”
“I returned your rototiller.”
“I don’t own a rototiller.”
“Then who does?” he asked, somewhat perplexed.
“I dunno, who else do you borrow from?”
“I’ll have to give that some thought.”
I was not happy with Stan and I told him so. But Stan is Stan. He will never change no matter how much he apologizes and promises to do better. We spoke about that until our words died away.
“By the way,” he said reviving the conversation, “you owe me fifty-five dollars.”
“What for?” I asked.
“I replaced your rototiller’s head gasket.”
“But I don’t own a rototiller.”
“You do now.”