“Mr. Dennis, I need a favor.”
“Of course, Señora Alvarez,” I said. “How can I help you?”
Eighty-one-year-old Señora Alvarez who lives on my street stopped me as I drove by in my golf cart.
“My butane tank is empty, and I need someone to take it to be filled.”
“I’ll be glad to do it,” I said.
“I can’t help much,” she told me. “It’s real heavy and I’m scared to death of gas. It always seems very dangerous to me.”
The gas tank was so huge that I struggled to get it from the back of the house to my cart and struggled even more to load it. After getting it filled, I swung by and picked up Mario to help me. We stumbled our way around the house with the tank as the old Señora watched us from the porch.
“Ah, you just getting old,” Mario said, for about the fifth time as I huffed and puffed.
“You think so?” I asked. “I can still outrun you in a foot race.”
Mario said, “I’ll bet you two beers that I can beat you to the corner.”
“Go!” I said.
We dropped the tank and ran.
Just as Mario caught up with me the old Señora passed us like a gazelle outrunning a leopard. She stopped at the corner to catch her breath.
Señora Alvarez, what on earth are you doing?” I asked.
She said, “Mr. Dennis, when I seen you and Mario dropped that full tank of gas and started running away, I figured I’d better start running too.”
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