Found a Topper

Found a topper, found a topper, found a topper just now, just now I found a topper, found a topper just now.

It was rotten…

Just kidding, it’s not rotten. It is old and dirty and slightly broken, but it only cost me $200, which next to a $1500 new one sounds very reasonable to me.

The guy I bought it from is an very strange human I found on KSL (for some reason Utah has spurned Craigslist and uses this extremely similar site instead). He seemed very nice and friendly when I texted him about the topper, but when I arrived I discovered I must have been talking to a friend, or some sort of alter ego.

When I arrived to the farm in Spanish Fork I began to think perhaps I should have told someone where I was and what I was doing. The farm was decrepit, and in the early evening light, very creepy. It looked like the sort of place where neighbors might one day be interviewed on the news, “He was such a nice guy… bit of a loner”.

But the guy was there, along with a woman, and male/female serial killer pairs are pretty rare, right?

I attempted to make small talk while I followed him to the barn where the topper was being held (presumably against it’s will). Most remarks or questions were answered with a single word or not at all, “Is this your farm?” I asked, “… No”, he replied. Why use 10 or 20 words when one will do?

The topper was in a shed, suspended from the rafters with string, like a large and ominous mobile. Probably to keep things from nesting underneath, I reasoned to myself, this is fine. I was more interested in what was going on underneath. On the floor of the shed were piles, or more accurately mountains, of crushed Natural Light cans. This was the first truly alarming sight in my opinion. What does this taste in beer say about a 30-40 year old man? Nothing good.

But I was in it now, might as well see it through. I was wondering how we were going to get the thing off the ceiling and onto my truck when the guy, kicking aside his cans, walked underneath, hunched backed and arms spread and said to the woman, “cut it down”. The roof of the topper was probably two feet above his back and I suddenly understood, I wasn’t here to be murdered I was here to witness his suicide by the peculiar method of topper crushing.

“Can I help?” I asked. No answer, naturally.

So I stood back and let the woman drop the topper onto his back. To my surprise he did not crumble like a piece of paper but remained on his feet and walked the topper over to my truck like an overly well endowed tortoise.

And it fit! Which was very good, because at this point I might have been tempted to say, “Oh no, I actually like them a bit on the small side, makes life exciting, you know?”

And so I left, with both my life and my topper, what more can you ask for?