A warm evening breeze and an icy scotch. Heaven.
Until I heard the cursing. Had to be James, my sleepwalking neighbor.
Normally I chuck acorns at him from my back porch until he wakes up and sorts himself out.
But tonight wasn’t normal. Tonight he was stuck in the local pond, chest-deep in mud and surrounded by alligators.
“Call the police,” I told my wife while jumping into my loafers.
I wasn’t going to do much. But I had to do something.
I grabbed my walking stick and disappeared out the back door.
Right place, right time. Jimbo got lucky.
The Weekday One Hundred 