"Whose was this?" he asks. I have no idea. I haven't had a Snapple since 50-pounds-of-Bill-Clinton ago.
That night I ask my wife, "Hey, did you have a Snapple when you drove my car last? Or did Laurie have one?"
"We went in Laurie's car that day," she says. "Besides, I haven't had a Snapple since they tore that Saddam statue down."
I text my daughter at college. She's home once a month or so. "I can't remember when I last had Snapple. Especially kiwi-strawberry," she replies. (She's a boba connoisseur.)
I rack my brain about who's been in my car. I email my friend Dave. "Yo, that day we went out geocaching, did you drink a Snapple?"
"I did not," he writes back, almost defiantly, because he only rolls with Gatorade.
Turns out nobody drank a Snapple in my car. I might guess that nobody wants to confess to leaving trash under my seat, but that makes no sense, since they know I'm the first to leave trash under my seat, at least if the seat's already piled high.
I flash back two decades. I came out one morning to find my car door ajar and a huge pile of Kleenex on the passenger seat. Someone, I suspected, had used my unlocked car overnight for an amorous escapade. The park near us was known for such vehicular prostitutional activity, and I guess they figured the cops wouldn't be looking at driveways.
But coming back 20 years later just to plant a Snapple bottle? Just to mess with me? I find that far-fetched. And I watch "Game of Thrones," so I know far-fetched.
To recap: I didn't drink the Snapple, my wife didn't drink it, my kids didn't, nor did anyone who has ridden in the car that we can remember. I sometimes leave my sun roof open at work, so it is theoretically possible that somebody lofted an Abdul-Jabbar quality sky hook, and the bottle miraculously then lodged under the seat. Possible, but not likely.
Buddha famously said, "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth." Clearly, Buddha never had a car.
