I’ve pestered Greg a lot lately about going to San Antonio. Even back when we lived in Illinois we had considered a vacation there, and now that we live 90 miles away, I can’t believe that we still haven’t been. But Greg, poky, lackadaisical Greg, who if his hair were on fire would slowly saunter into the kitchen, stop at the fridge for a drink of chocolate milk, and minutes later reach the sink to snuff the flames, well, he’s in no rush.
“I think we should go to San Antonio tomorrow because the weather is supposed to be beautiful,” I said.
“Why tomorrow?” Greg asked.
“Because we keep putting this off, and we’re never going to go,” I said.
“Why are you in such a hurry to go?” Greg asked.
“We’ve lived here for a year and a half now, and frankly, it’s getting embarrassing that we haven’t been to any other cities,” I said. “But … hmm … if we go we probably won’t get back in time to watch the Super Bowl. And it seems like we should watch it given that the Bears are in it.”
So we decided to delay our trip again. A few minutes later, Greg’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the phone number on the caller ID, so he didn’t answer. “830?” he said, quizzically. “Do you know where 830 is?”
“No, but we can Google it,” I said.
We did. It was San Antonio. We don’t know anyone in San Antonio.
“San Antonio is calling you,” I said. “It wants you to come for a visit right away.”
“How did you do that?” Greg asked, sounding amazed.
“I can control things with my mind,” I said. “Behold the power.”