About the Author: Wayne J. Gardiner has several short stories in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and a novel, THE MAN ON THE LEFT.
I’m going to Atlanta next week.
The Braves hosting the Cubs, a three-game set. Seats midway between home plate and third base, six rows up. Both teams are out of the pennant race, no chance for the playoffs.
I’ve been to Atlanta once before, many years ago on a weekend pass when I was in the Army. It was an enjoyable few days but I have no real affinity for the city. Chicago either, for that matter, though I’ve heard the Magnificent Mile is nice.
I don’t even like baseball that much.
You might wonder why I’m so excited about the trip.
I haven’t left the house in over eleven years.
In fact, it’s been eleven years, eight months, two weeks and three days.
But who’s counting?
The fact that I haven’t left my home in almost twelve years is not a whimsical decision. Nor is it a protest or anything like that. I’m not disabled. People consider me to be good-looking. I’m sociable by nature. Physically fit.
The host on our local talk radio station asked if there was a reason I hadn’t been out of the house for over eleven years.
D-u-u-h!
I told him about it. Not the real reason. But I told him there was a reason.