Tuesday afternoon phone call from Joe the Plumber:
Joe: Marc, I really hate to ask, but can you lend me some money?
Marc: Oh, so the money you've been making....
Joe: It's been going to the motel....
Marc: Sure, what's up?
Joe: My van broke down. I'm here at a house in Del Paso Heights where a guy is working on it (Not THAT house - I don't go to THAT house anymore - but another house.) It's some kind of heater control thing. The vehicle runs rough and has no power. A plastic tube broke and I have to buy a part and pay the mechanic.
Marc: OK, so where's the house?
Joe: (aside) Hey, what's the address here?
(Voice): I can't tell you.
Joe: What?
(Voice): I can't tell you the address here. I'm a fugitive. I don't want to be found.
(Muffled conversation about how Joe can't guarantee payment unless I can somehow find the house. The mechanic was compelled to comply by the logic of the situation.)
Joe: The address is x*&@#$$$.
After driving through the funky, sweaty weirdness of backwater Del Paso Heights I finally arrived at the house. The mechanic eyed me warily, as we sized each other up, each trying to decide who posed the greatest danger to the other. The fellow seemed inarticulate - he could barely describe the problem with the heater control thingy - but otherwise seemed nice enough. Joe and I headed off to the auto parts store, purchased the part, and returned. I headed home, and presume all is well.
And now, to turn Joe's prepaid attention to the broken sprinkler head on my front lawn.
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