Everyone loves a mystery. What happened to Amelia Earhart? Is Jimmy Hoffa really embedded in the Meadowlands? Is that Bigfoot knocking on a tree in the forest with a big rock, or is it just another group of monster hunters from another reality show?
Here are three mind-benders to keep you busy.
Mystery One: Which idiot caused the A train to derail? Last week, the A train derailed. Sparks from the derailment caused the normally dormant piles of trash to catch fire. People were injured and traumatized. Everyone assumed the train was going too fast for such an ancient system. Then, there were reports that someone pulled an emergency brake. Someone else heard that the conductor went through a red light (yes, there are red lights in the subway system).
Au contraire! A large chunk of metal had been stored – not in the approved storage place – but on the actual rail of the A train. When the A train ran over it, lo and behold – it derailed. Surprise surprise. The only mystery that remains: who did it, and why haven’t they been tapped as advisor to the White House?
Mystery Two: Why do crazy people hate other crazy people? You meet two crazy people. You think they’ll have a lot in common. You’d think they could chat comfortably for hours about government conspiracies being run out of their neighbor’s apartment, how their mother permanently screwed up their chances of marrying Prince William, or trade ideas on the best way to avoid taking your meds.
Not so fast. Crazy people have an unerring radar that allows them to avoid each other like the plague. Instead, they will invariably corner some innocent young thing and play upon their sympathies, usually leaving the restaurant only after the bill has been delivered but before it has been paid.
Mystery Three: How did I get three wedding rings? One fine day, I looked in the box where I keep jewelry and small bill paper money to tip delivery guys, and bammo! Three gold rings.
First, the back story. My mother’s side of the family was mostly cowboys. They owned nothing, not even the house they lived in. (Pa’s side of the family were dirt farmers, and they owned a farm with a basement that had no house attached to it, but that’s another story.)
As the eldest grandchild on Ma’s side of the family, I inherited the sum and total of the family wealth – to whit, two gold wedding bands that belonged to Great Grandma Lydia. There was some question as to whether or not I would receive my rightful inheritance, as I was far from the first female to wed. At one point, one of my younger cousins almost outmaneuvered me by pointing out how unlikely it was that I’d marry at all. But then Al came along and popped the question.
I remember it well. We were standing in his kitchen in our underwear, in Queens, boiling
water for a breakfast of instant ramen, when he suddenly said “You’re the first woman I can stand being around for more than one day at a time. Wanna get married?” How could I pass up such a romantic? To his lasting shock, I agreed. After he recovered a bit from his joyful surprise, his response was, “Really? Does this mean I have to go out and buy a diamond the size of a sofa cushion?” Naw. I’d seen enough subway ads for divorce lawyers to know a diamond don’t mean shit.
So, no diamond needed. I knew I had an inheritance coming – to whit, two gold wedding bands that belonged to Great Grandma Lydia – so I put the wheels in motion and paid a visit to my mother to fetch them. They turned out to be quite nice, made of actual real gold, with “fidelity” engraved on the inside of one of them. I had two questions: why did Great Grandma have two rings? And, why does one of them have a big gap in it? Answer number one: “No one knows why she had two, but she always wore both of them even though she only had one husband.” Answer number two: “When she died it was summer, and she swelled up so much they couldn’t get the ring off the normal way, so they had to saw it off.”
My family is not one to see the point of burying real gold jewelry with the dead, who won’t be using it again anyway.
We got a goldsmith to repair the gap, and we were wed with Great Grandma’s rings.
As the years went by, we both stopped wearing them. They hurt our fingers, we almost lost them a few times, and frankly, after so many years, we don’t need no stinkin’ ring to remind us that we are married. In addition, it will be a boon to my own great grandchildren when they find they don’t have to saw ‘em off my finger when the time comes.
And so, both rings have been stored in my jewelry box for years. One day , Eldest Daughter took a look inside and asked why are there three rings? And there were. Three wedding rings are now in my jewelry box: my two original ones, and another plain gold band. No one knows when or how the third one appeared. Like my marriage itself, it just happened mysteriously, and now it’s here to stay.