An (Unreliable) Side Note

Speaking of unreliable ...

*knock, knock*

I opened the front door. A police officer was standing on the stoop. "Hello?"

"Good morning. Does a Clark Brooks live here?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes he does."

"Is he here? May I speak with him?"

"Sure. I'll get him. Hold tight a moment ..."

I ran inside and tracked him down. "There's a police officer at the door who wants to speak with you," I told Clark.

"What does he want?"

"To speak with you."

"Come with me. This smells fishy," Clark said. We both trotted down the hallway to the door.

Clark opened it to see the waiting officer. "Good morning. I'm Clark. May I help you?"

"Clark Brooks? You're the owner of a vintage yellow Corvette, correct?" the officer asked.

"Yes."

"There have been several reliable reports of a vintage yellow Corvette seen cruising down Main Street in the wee hours of this morning with several women spilling out of it. One account stated there were no less than 4 ladies barely inside the vehicle ..."

"Well ... that doesn't sound reliable to me. That's just not possible," Clark responded. "The 'Vette's only a two-seater ..."

"Were you driving down Main Street early this morning between the approximate hours of 12:45 a.m. and 1:15 a.m.?"

"No. I was here."

"Can you verify you were here during those times?" the officer shot back.

"Of course. I was on my computer ... buying robots."

"Robots?" the officer asked quizzically.

"Yes. I like robots. I have a printed receipt I can show you around the time you mentioned which will show the time of purchase. Someone is pulling a fast one on you, officer. I was never outside this location. Yesterday around noon when I was out getting some lunch, that was the last time I was around and about."

"So ... you weren't out driving around Main Street this morning?"

"No."

"And you didn't have half a dozen women spilling out from your Corvette?"

"No! I told you: It's a two-seater ..."

"I'd like to see that receipt if you don't mind," the officer requested. Clark went inside to get it. As he passed me, he threw up his hands and shrugged. I did the same back at him.

I heard giggling coming from the kitchen where Jeff was cooking something. In between the chuckling, he was half singing, half humming War's Spill The Wine: 

"... spill the wine, get that girl ... spill the wine, dig that pearl ..."