The Waterbed

We had one more shelf to go in the shower.  We hoped they’d delay even more because we didn’t have to pay in full until the job was completed.  DeRay forgot to tell me that they called and said the workman was on his way over.  Of course, he didn’t hear the doorbell.  It rang twice.  I finally grabbed Amy’s robe and went to answer the door.  There stood a grubby man.  He knew it too because he shoved the work order in my face as credentials.  “DeRay!”  “Oh, yes, I forgot they called.”  DeRay shows him the shower.  I find him electricity outside; he finishes the job and leaves.

Soon the doorbell rings again.  

“I just noticed the waterbed in your trailer.  Are you throwing it away?”

“We’re taking it to the dump today.”

“I have a bladder but those drawers look lots better than the ones I have.”

By now I’m dressed and I call out the door, “DeRay, give him the headboard in the basement too.”

We had thought we would attach it to the new bed but if someone could use it, we’d gladly part with it.  I just didn’t want to send it to the dump.

“Oh, thank you so very much,” he gushed.  “I am so appreciative.”

He got the plywood from the deck, the headboard from the basement and loaded all those drawers and frame onto his truck and thanked us profusely over and over again.

I felt so happy.

Our waterbed had a home and didn’t die at the dump.

Then that night when I couldn’t sleep, I went down to the kitchen.  We don’t necessarily close our blinds at night so I felt vulnerable in the eeriness of the quiet night.  And I kept thinking I could see this grungy man, who on first sight reminded me of pictures of Brian David Mitchell, lurking at the backdoor.

I’m sure he was just as honorable as he was polite.

Why am I so jaded?

Why couldn’t I just be happy (like I felt) that someone wanted the discarded waterbed?