The Saturday Morning Post

Craig Bengle, Washington Bureau Chief

Every once in a while, fortunately not too often, something major goes wrong in my life. And given I am only human, I often take pity on myself at the time and ask the inevitable question, “why me?” I mean, after all, I am a good person. While I have been tempted, I have never murdered any one.

Eyed by a seeing-eye dog

I pay my taxes. Once, I got up from my seat on a crowded bus so an old woman could sit. Admittedly, her seeing-eye dog was, as seeing-eye dogs do, eying me in disgust for 10 minutes before I gave it up, but I did it. So I think you would agree, I am indeed a very good person.

I digress. The point is I have discovered a pattern that when major trouble befalls me, it seems to be an invitation for more bad things to happen. The “when it rains, it pours” syndrome. It is almost as though “Bad Thing #1″ walks into an auditorium full of other “Bad Things” in waiting and announces “OK, I’m done. I’ve softened him up. He’s in the pity stage. If you act now, you can take him.” Bad Thing #’s 2, 3, 4, and so on form a neat line toward the exit, and head in my direction. I think it is true what you often hear about bad things, like famous people dying, coming in three’s. I don’t know why this rule stops at the number three, as my experience is they keep coming until they reach double digits, but this phenomena may be peculiar to me.

When they arrive on my doorstep, these bad things morph themselves into life’s everyday problems, annoyances, and aggravations. My zipper gets stuck in my shirt when I’m in the restroom at work before an important meeting and won’t pull back up. I am running late to catch a flight, dash to the car, and find the gas needle hopelessly below “E.” I get to the podium to make a speech and find I am staring down at my wife’s pap smear test results instead. This past summer, when these things started to occur one right after the other, I had a revelation. I came to the conclusion that that there must be specially appointed people in my life — people I often do not know or will meet only once — assigned to my “account” to ensure these problems happen. These highly trained experts actually belong to a secret club of conspirators who meet weekly at randomly selected locations like the Y or in a church basement to plan and orchestrate the events that make my life miserable, particularly when I am at my most vulnerable.

Paranoia? Read on.

Take a number

Last week, I was standing in line at the bakery behind a woman. Unfortunately, I was in a real hurry. I had ten minutes before I was supposed to be at my four-year-old son’s surprise birthday party, and our home was 20 minutes away. The woman took a full 12 minutes to buy two scones. Between changing her mind five times on the kind of pastry she wanted, arguing with the manager over why the bakery did not take American Express, and counting out $3.97 cents in dimes, nickels and pennies pulled slowly and meticulously from her change purse, I was ready to blow a gasket. Then something odd happened. Even though I had held my temper in check, she gave me an unusually nervous look as she walked out the door and headed to her car. I had such a suspicious feeling about it that something told me I just had to follow her, surprise party or not.

I tailed her for eight miles all the way to an office park where she pulled into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. I quietly snuck in behind her, down three flights of stairs to the basement, and peaked through the crack in the door she had entered. And there they were. A room full of about fifty people sitting classroom style and in rapt attention of the speaker.

“Mildred, you’re late,” the instructor said.

“I’m sorry,” the woman I tailed from the bakery murmured. “He had only five minutes to make it home on time, and I stalled him at the bakery for over fifteen.”

“Are you absolutely sure he was late enough for his wife to be furious at him and for the child to be left in tears?,” the instructor asked.

“Oh, yes. The guy just stood there while I fished around for change over and over to make sure” she beamed. “I even used the American Express trick. Believe me, he’s screwed when he gets home.”

Light applause from the audience.

“Good then!” the instructor crowed. “Now let’s talk about next week’s schedule. Jack, what have you got planned?”

An older gentlemen with a kindly face stood up and literally saluted.

“Well, sir,” Jack said, “On Tuesday morning, I am going to position myself about three miles ahead of him on the I-5 North and rear end someone in the center lane badly enough that the traffic jam will extend for five miles, minimum.”

“Excellent,” the instructor was glowing. “What will be the extent of the damages?”

“To the car I hit? Minimal,” Jack said. “But our subject will be five exits back and is going to miss his flight to Atlanta for sure. This is going to cause at least an hour delay.”

“Excuse me,” a man neatly dressed in what looked to be an airline pilot’s uniform rose up to speak. “If there is any problem with Jack’s plan, we have a back up in place. We are preparing the usual mechanical problem for his plane that will cancel his flight for sure.”

A construction worker rose and chimed in.

“And if he tries to divert from the back up on I-5 and goes for Mission Blvd to get around the wreck like he did last time, we have that covered on our end,” he said. “We will close it down to one lane and hold him up as long as we can.”

“Great,” the instructor said. ” I think we have Tuesday covered. “What else is on the menu for next week?”

“I called that swanky restaurant where he made reservations for Friday night and had them canceled,” a young woman chimed in. “He has important guests coming in from out of town that evening for dinner. It’s going to be very embarassing.”

“Mam, you are new here. Who are you?,” the instructor asked.

I thought I recognized this attractive woman from somewhere.

“I work for the subject in his accounting department. I just started last week,” she said. “I am coming down with the flu, so as soon as I arrive at work on Monday I plan to introduce myself to him in the cafeteria, shake his hand, and pass on as many germs as I can. I’ll sneeze on him if I have to. He should be sick by the weekend.”

Sustained applause.

“And the rest of you?” the instructor asked?

“I am going to cut in line in front of him at the movie theater on Saturday,” one said. “He despises that, and it will piss him off for the entire movie.”

“I am going to complain about his son at school for no good reason,” another said.

“I am an ex-lover from college. I am going to call his wife at home at 11:30 p.m. to ask where he is.” She must have put on 50 pounds.

“I am his new next door neighbor. I am going to have our gardener cut down his rose bushes by mistake.”

“I am his house keeper. Unless there is an objection, I will hide his car keys for the third time this month.”

“Excellent, excellent, all of you,” the instructor said. “When we get together next week, I am going to ask who wants to be on his vacation planning committee. Until then, report in, and keep up the good work.”

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