Grey Sedan
I see a slightly rusted grey sedan parked on the corner as I drive by. It sat there in front of that nondescript bungalow every morning. It was never there at any other time. Not at noon, supper, or late evening, but always in the early morning. It was there when I left for work every morning and that was it.
I don’t know when I noticed it.
I am not sure when the coffee-lacking mind wondered about who owned the car and why they didn’t park in the large driveway next to the house.
I truly tried to ignore it. But the more I tried, the more I couldn’t help but wonder.
At first, I assumed it was the owner’s vehicle and that they simply didn’t spend much time at home.
Maybe they worked evenings and that’s why the car was never there from the afternoon into the evening. Probably worked at some restaurant or bar or some other place open late.
Or maybe it was a younger person who owned that sedan and that they have a partner that they spent all their time with. They are ‘in love’. That would explain not parking in the driveway. Some parents have rules about things such as that.
If they were older, they had to be the owner of that bar or at least the manager. The car was there 7 days a week. No one else really works that often. Do they?
If so, then they had a reason for parking on the street, a commuting reason. They could get to work on time each afternoon and could maximise on their sleep. Their car is parked ideally so it is ready to go to any of the local businesses.
I made peace with my clever theories.
My peace was disrupted.
Fifteen minutes: my morning commute changes. I now leave fifteen minutes later and my stories fell apart.
The man in the sedan is now there most mornings; he is in front of his house. His face is weathered. He is around 30 years old, looks strong, and is always wearing slightly dirty jeans and a t-shirt. But none of that catches my attention at first because he has the most unusual accessory.
On the mornings that I see him, he has a wheelbarrow.
Sometimes, I see him wheeling it around his house, as if from some storage area around the corner. And other mornings, he is taking his wheelbarrow and placing it in his trunk. And on the even rarer occasion, I see the man in the sedan drive off -trunk (partially open) holding a large wheelbarrow- and heading to wherever the man goes.
At what type of job does a man need a wheelbarrow? What seven-day-a-week career means you have to move the earth so often? And why wouldn’t he leave it as his job?
I hated my questions. But the old theories needed to be discarded. And my compulsion wanted -no needed- to replace them.
Landscaper! That had to be it. He is a self-employed landscaper. He does have a fairly nice looking lawn, I thought to myself.
Something else was nagging me.
A couple times I had seen him with his wheelbarrow already hoisted into his car and he was sitting in his car on his phone or reading his paper.
I couldn’t let it go.
I looked for more clues, but found nothing.
Months later, my routine changed again.
Couch-to-5k happened. I huffed and I puffed and I ran early each morning. I think when I run. I am not sure how well but I felt it was an avenue for clarity.
Clarity came around the 4 km route mark.
Hitting my stride around three-quarters of the way through and proud of my accomplishments so far, I see in the distance someone on my path.
As the image gets clearer, I see my man -the man with the sedan- and his wheelbarrow, full of newspapers.
I smile and my shoes are lighter. Change is good.
I don’t know when I noticed it.
I am not sure when the coffee-lacking mind wondered about who owned the car and why they didn’t park in the large driveway next to the house.
I truly tried to ignore it. But the more I tried, the more I couldn’t help but wonder.
At first, I assumed it was the owner’s vehicle and that they simply didn’t spend much time at home.
Maybe they worked evenings and that’s why the car was never there from the afternoon into the evening. Probably worked at some restaurant or bar or some other place open late.
Or maybe it was a younger person who owned that sedan and that they have a partner that they spent all their time with. They are ‘in love’. That would explain not parking in the driveway. Some parents have rules about things such as that.
If they were older, they had to be the owner of that bar or at least the manager. The car was there 7 days a week. No one else really works that often. Do they?
If so, then they had a reason for parking on the street, a commuting reason. They could get to work on time each afternoon and could maximise on their sleep. Their car is parked ideally so it is ready to go to any of the local businesses.
I made peace with my clever theories.
My peace was disrupted.
Fifteen minutes: my morning commute changes. I now leave fifteen minutes later and my stories fell apart.
The man in the sedan is now there most mornings; he is in front of his house. His face is weathered. He is around 30 years old, looks strong, and is always wearing slightly dirty jeans and a t-shirt. But none of that catches my attention at first because he has the most unusual accessory.
On the mornings that I see him, he has a wheelbarrow.
Sometimes, I see him wheeling it around his house, as if from some storage area around the corner. And other mornings, he is taking his wheelbarrow and placing it in his trunk. And on the even rarer occasion, I see the man in the sedan drive off -trunk (partially open) holding a large wheelbarrow- and heading to wherever the man goes.
At what type of job does a man need a wheelbarrow? What seven-day-a-week career means you have to move the earth so often? And why wouldn’t he leave it as his job?
I hated my questions. But the old theories needed to be discarded. And my compulsion wanted -no needed- to replace them.
Landscaper! That had to be it. He is a self-employed landscaper. He does have a fairly nice looking lawn, I thought to myself.
Something else was nagging me.
A couple times I had seen him with his wheelbarrow already hoisted into his car and he was sitting in his car on his phone or reading his paper.
I couldn’t let it go.
I looked for more clues, but found nothing.
Months later, my routine changed again.
Couch-to-5k happened. I huffed and I puffed and I ran early each morning. I think when I run. I am not sure how well but I felt it was an avenue for clarity.
Clarity came around the 4 km route mark.
Hitting my stride around three-quarters of the way through and proud of my accomplishments so far, I see in the distance someone on my path.
As the image gets clearer, I see my man -the man with the sedan- and his wheelbarrow, full of newspapers.
I smile and my shoes are lighter. Change is good.