When I wrote about this incident many years ago, Mary Ellen said someday I would look back on the event and laugh. I’m still not laughing. Maybe you will.
I’d like to take you back to the winter of 2006. Here’s the Naked Truth, 10th Anniversary Edition.
I had just gotten home after giving a speech. I pulled into the garage about 11 p.m. and entered the house through the door inside the garage. Mary Ellen was asleep upstairs. I quietly went into the bedroom and undressed, but before putting on my sleeping shorts, I decided to run downstairs and grab a small bottle of fruit juice from the garage fridge.
I retrieved the drink and turned the knob to re-enter the house. The knob refused to budge. “No way,” I said to myself. And no clothes, either. I was locked out. Buck naked.
I panicked, banging on the door with both fists, bellowing Mary Ellen’s name. There was no response. I knew the bedroom door was closed and the ceiling fan was whirring. On a scale from one to 10, in order to be heard, I would need to make a disturbance that was a four. On the Richter scale.
My cellphone was in the car. If I called the home phone, that would surely get Mary Ellen’s attention. It rang and rang, but there was no answer. It went to voicemail. Out of habit, I left a message: “Hello, Mary Ellen. If you get this, I’m in the garage with no clothes on. When you have a moment, could you come downstairs and let me in?”
I hated to be a pessimist, but I didn’t imagine she was going to check for messages at 11:15. Now what was I going to do? I remembered that sometimes I leave the back door of the house unlocked. All I had to do was sneak around and go through the entrance on the deck.
At that moment, I began to fully appreciate what my wife goes through when we plan an evening out. I needed to give some serious consideration to my wardrobe. But what was appropriate for this occasion? I had two choices: A lovely 40-gallon black garbage bag or the 34-gallon clear plastic bags. I look terrible in black, but the other option seemed, well, redundant.
Instead, I just opened the garage door and made my way along the side of the house. Then, as I neared the back yard, I bolted toward the deck, up the steps and into the living room.
The next morning I decided not to tell Mary Ellen what happened. I wasn’t in the mood to be made fun of. But I had forgotten about that voicemail.
She called me from work later that day. “Dick, I just listened to the oddest message. Apparently, last night, about the time you were supposed to get home, there was a naked man in our garage. Now, who in heaven’s name could that have possibly been?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, Mary Ellen.”
I figured she’d never find out. I didn’t leave my name on that voicemail.
Television personality Dick Wolfsie writes this weekly column for the Daily Journal. Send comments to [email protected].
