Campfire Tale: Not Myself

I stepped off the bus shading my eyes from the bright sunlight. The familiar stately stone buildings that lined my hometown’s downtown area surrounded me.

I looked at the bustling crowd that walked passed me on the sidewalk wondering which direction I should take.

As I walked down the sidewalk I was confused. Why was I here instead of at work? Where had I been earlier? Where was my car? Why was I riding a city bus?

It dawned on me that I didn’t even know what time it was.

As a woman approached me I smiled and said, “Miss, I am sorry, I forgot my watch . . . before I could ask for the time she dropped her purse, screamed and ran.

The faces of the other people near me—all looked frightened. They were going out of their way to avoid me—some flattered themselves against the building—others ran across the street.

I realized that there must be something wrong with me. Scared myself, I decided I best head home. I hailed a cab.

When this taxi driver got closer to where I stood he sped away.

Why is everyone acting so crazy?

Not understanding what was going on I decided to call home and ask my wife Jean to pick me up. I walked to a pay phone and put in several coins.

A strange voice answered my home phone. I asked to speak to Jean.

The female voice responded. “I’m sorry she isn’t home. Her husband died in a horrible car crash two days ago. She is at his funeral.”