Previously on The Plug...
Mother Nature has a cruel sense of humor.
I threw the bottle into the Atlantic Ocean, specifically at the shore of Indian Harbour Beach, Florida. During the throw, I heard a splash while the bottle was midair. I looked down and saw my keychain sink to the bottom of the ocean. I looked to Patti, who looked frantic, but not because she saw our only means of getting home drowning in the water. She pointed at my wallet, which had also fallen out of my pocket and was floating nearby. Like a victim of a home fire who can only save one possesion, I faced a tough decision. Wallet or keys? Ability to unlock my personal shelter or ability to prove to the door guy that I am of legal drinking age? I rescued my wallet and waded back to the spot where the keys fell. With each wave, a new deposit of sand blanketed whatever used to be on top. Long story short: I lost my keys in the Atlantic Ocean, which is not an easy thing to do standing in water that's one foot deep.
A locksmith kindly made me a new car key because it was Christmas, and because I paid him eighty-eight dollars. He did so by taking apart my passenger door and I thought, Holy shit! Toyota hides a spare key inside the door! That's so clever! Then he simply removed the cylinder lock so he could cut a key to its specifications, and I went, “Oh. Right.”
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I saw an old man walking along the beach pick up my message-in-a-bottle which had already washed up on shore. He stared at its contents and chucked it back into the ocean, presumably without losing his wallet and keys. I thought Florida was the sunshine state. I could have used some.
To this day, no one has legitimately contacted me about my message-in-a-bottle. If it was found, that person obviously thinks the world is better off without another web magazine. Well, I'll show that imaginary person what I should and shouldn't do! The Plug is officially back for a third volume of life documention. Thank you for reading. Now go do what what your eyes do best.
P.S. When Patti and I got back to Atlanta, we were still locked out of our apartment. I bought a sixteen foot extension ladder, strapped it to the roof of my car, crawled through a second-floor window, then returned the ladder for a full refund with the excuse, “It wasn't long enough.” Eye contact was never made.
