[dropcap]I [/dropcap]walked out of Publix, unable to remember where I parked my truck. It was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot.

This happens to me all the time. In fact, I’m not even bothered by it anymore. I’m as senile as my old grandaddy was. He was nothing if not forgetful, but he still liked to give me advice; one day, he took me aside and left me there.

The way I usually find may car is to wave my keyless remote in the air, clicking the panic-button repeatedly. Whenever I hear my vehicle erupt like a middle school trombone section, I know I’ve found my truck.

I attempted my remote-waving maneuver, but it was to no avail. I walked through the parking lot as confused as a duck looking for thunder. It reminded me of the time I got lost at Disney World. I still can’t talk about that incident yet. Two days I stayed lost. They found me in Epcot, selling T-shirts.

When I finally found my faithful old burgundy Ford, all my anxieties faded. I flung my groceries into the back, hopped into the driver’s seat and adjusted my rear view mirror.

I nearly had a heart attack.

In the backseat was a little black boy staring at me.

All I could do was let out a silent scream.

“What are you doing in my truck?” I shouted.

The boy blinked at me.

“Yours? What’re you doing in my Daddy’s truck?”