A severe case of brain ‘toots’

The day started out bad. I made three false starts, first forgetting my wallet, then my mailbox keys, and finally my jacket and gloves.
“When is this @#$% weather going to warm up!” I muttered in disgust as I headed for the Bakery and my morning caffeine.
I stopped short. My bike was missing from its usual parking spot.
Now Drizzle Creek is not considered a high crime area—unless you consider Ike Dyck coasting through stop signs on his bicycle the hardened criminal element. But my bike was gone.
I checked the garage to see if I had put it inside. Gone.
The rotten punks! They stole my bike.
I began to fume, but cool reason rose to the surface. Not one of the self-respecting punks in Drizzle Creek would be caught dead riding a pukey purple women’s bike.
Arthritis has made swinging my leg over a crossbar far too difficult, and my tottering balance is so dangerous I occasionally have wound up relaxing on the grass after an aborted mount.
No, it couldn’t be the local punks.
I re-checked the garage. Then I checked underneath the van to make sure the bike had not had a close encounter of the “Pearl” kind.
All clear there. Besides, the Pearl had joked she would never run over my bike unless I was riding it at the time (at least I think she was joking).
I trudged on towards the Bakery, spurred on by my caffeine craving—and an order of toast. At the door, the entrance was pretty much blocked by four-wheelers (walkers). I wound my way through and, glancing to my right, there was my bike.
Then I remembered. I’d left it there the day before when Col. Moeregard had offered me a ride home. Being a senior, I jumped at the opportunity (after all it was free).
As I strode up to the debating table, muttering around a mouthful of toast, Moose greeted me. “See you left your bike here last night. At first I thought you were up to an early-morning affair with an apple fritter.”
Rapier quick, I replied, “Me forget? No way! Had too much high test yesterday afternoon and felt my nerves were too jangled to operate a high-performance machine like that.”
Moose looked doubtful.
The Runt wandered in, asking, “Elliott, did you forget your bike here yesterday?” But he paid no attention to my reply as his standing order of toast arrived.
“Jack, how come you left your bike here yesterday?” asked Val as she delivered the Runt’s toast and pointedly ignored my request for more coffee.
Pickle sauntered in, stating, “Elliott, there’s no point in leaving your bike here. I won’t take it home and work on it—and no warranty!”
Cousin It, who recently had his waist-length locks shorn off, hurried in from the country. Pulling up a chair, he asked, “Elliott, how come you left your bike here last night? Fall off the wagon again?”
That pretty much set the tone for the day. I had to cut the coffee break short and headed home an hour later.
The Pearl was waiting for me at the door. “Did you get the mail and a loaf of bread?” she asked.
“Uh. . . .”
“And the Alzheimer ‘Walk for Memories’ people called. Seems you were supposed to cover that event. You having more brain farts?” the Pearl added, shaking her head in frustration.
I immediately made a note to contact the Alzheimer folks to arrange a new interview time. After all, it looks as if I might need their services.
Now where did I put that note?

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