The Garage
by Don Magin
“What the
hell is that? I come back from a week
at my mother’s and find a new garage in our
backyard! We don’t need it, and
we sure as hell can’t afford it!”
“Yeah, we
do need it. I can’t leave my new
sports car out in the weather all winter. And
we can afford it—we just need to postpone
building the new sun room you wanted.”
“Oh, no! I
put up with the weekly car washes and monthly
waxings, even if it meant I couldn’t have my
hair done. I put up with the leather
car seat covers, even if it meant I couldn’t
get a new winter coat. But I’m
not going to put up with this! I swear,
you love that stupid car more than you love me!”
“Well
maybe sometimes I do! At least it
doesn’t bitch at me and nag me all the time.” With
a slam of the house door, a second slam of the
car door, and a squeal of tires, he was gone.
It was dark
when he returned home several hours later. A note
on the garage door welcomed him: I MOVED A COT
AND A SLEEPING BAG INTO THE GARAGE FOR YOU. SLEEP
WITH YOUR DAMNED CAR!
He tried the
front door of the house, but it wouldn’t
open. “Damn it! She
must have barricaded the door somehow.”
“Honey,”
he called out at the light in the upstairs
bedroom window. “Honey, open the
door. I didn’t mean it. I
love you more than any old car. You
can’t be serious about making me sleep in
the garage—it’s supposed to get down to
freezing tonight. C’mon open the
door.”
The window
opened and his wife’s voice said, “You’re
right. You would be pretty cold with
just that old sleeping bag in the garage.”
As he waited
for her to open the door, a blanket hit him on
the head.
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