Painting

Despite the loud thumping of music and the shouts of the revelers in my ears as they strive to make themselves heard to one another, I feel my eyelids growing heavy, filling up with the sand that calls me to sleep.  I grab my coat, say my goodbyes and excuse myself from this cocoon of noise and heat and head out into the night.

The autumn night is cold and damp.  A mist hangs in the air from the earlier drizzle, clinging in its seclusive groups around each streetlamp and pinpoint of light like millions of little microscopic fireflies, making the night appear as hazy and smudged as I feel.  The dark and the wet pull me close and wrap its arms around me, and fill my lungs with their sweet refreshment.  The sounds of the street around me feel faint and muffled, almost distant, while the wet sound of grit and concrete beneath my feet scrapes against my eardrums in loud contrast.  I am in that little sliver of time between late and early.  The world feels thin, and if I step too hard, I might fall through.

I turn up my collar and scuff my way up the street.  With my hands in my pockets and my breath puffing out in front of me, I turn at the corner and briskly move in the direction of home.  Like sun after sun setting behind me, I pass under street lights and watch my shadow sprout from a seedling to a great oak, dying out in the oncoming glare of the next light.  At each street crossing, the red lights wash across the wet asphalt in splashes and shades of sunsets, and each curb makes me feel like a diver jumping from a cliff.  The puddles in the street gutters reflect the inky night sky above me, turning them into deep canyons.  Like a giant, I leap them in a single step while the canyon dwellers run for cover.

A few more streets down I come to the corner of the park, and I stop.  I stare straight ahead for a moment.  The gears in my head are creaking and groaning, trying to form thought in my sluggish lump of a brain.  My eyes let the world go fuzzy while I concentrate, straining to coax the thought out from under the bed of my consciousness.  It finally peeks out and licks my hand, and the world snaps back into focus.  The thought is thrust into the spotlight, and I take in a cold breath and look around.

I look back the way I came, across the street and into the park.  I look down the street towards home, and I realize that there's no one around.  Not a single person.  Not a single headlight of a car.  No movement except for the timed changing of stop lights and walking signs.  It's so quiet that I can almost hear them click as they change, moving like a wave ahead of me as they go from red to green.  I am the only one here and the world is mine.  The city is leading me home.  I follow the beckoning lights, allowing them to pull me along, like a lover looking over their shoulder and pulling the other by the hand. 

I finally arrive home.  I stagger inside, feeling like a marionette held up by only a single string as I allow my coat to fall to the floor and slip off my shoes before lifting the covers.  They feel as heavy as a lead apron in my tired arms, and I tumble into bed.  Pulling the covers over my head I break through the thin surface of the world and fall into a dark forest of slumber.

What Ever Happened to Grandpa?

Oh Grandpa, patron saint of the Cults!  You used to be such a spicy bite of Vegamite.  What on Earth happened to you?  One day you were hobbling around like a drunken pirate with termites in his peg leg, and the next day, there was no sign of you anywhere.  There was only a lumpy piece of rolled up carpeting in the back of RichEdie's truck, and Nurseboy Nick was driving your jalopy off into the nearest ravine.  I just can't figure out where you might have gone!

It was me, wasn't it?  No, do not deny it.  I must accept the consequences, though I shall not be happy with them.  I must have scared you off when you caught me peering at you from behind the blinds.  It enraged you to the point of kicking a field goal with the cat that was walking across your front yard at the time.  At least you could have called and told me where you were going.  You could have told me why you felt that we needed time apart.  I'm an accommodating person.  I would have given you space if you had only asked for it.  But look at what happens when you don't ask for space.  How much space do you have inside that carpet roll now, you greasy haired little man?

I can't help but to think of all the times we spent together!  I remember how you used to lurch your truck out of the driveway and it would make me blush and titter.  You would try to run over the kids walking to the bus stop while leering out the window, watching me as I watched you, and it made the bottom of my feet sweat.  I remember the way you used to situate that wooden lump you called a wig on top of your head, positioning it just so, and how Nurseboy Nick would just sit on the front stoop looking like a lonely six year old girl with a beard, and he would watch you with eyes full of admiration and shorts full of pudding.

Hey!  What about that time you and the rest of the Cults left your front porch light on Halloween night?  Every time some little kids would come up to receive their complimentary bit of Cult-ure, you would throw the door open and scream at them to go away and threaten them with your own bag of flaming poo!  Oh, that was an awesome display of mental prowess, good sir!  I will never forget the sense of wonder and lunacy you instilled in me.  You were brilliant!  Who would think that on Halloween night, of all nights, would be a good time to leave your front porch light on, especially if you didn't want little satanic hoodlums running up and beating on your door every three and a half seconds to get your secret stash of Grandpa's Goodies(tm)?  You, sir!  That's who!  And of course, that was the night I knew.  That was the night I understood why you call yourselves the Cults, and it made my heart flutter.  I called 911.

The day I came home from the hospital, I no longer felt your harsh stare on the back of my neck as I walked back in from getting my mail.  I didn't want to believe it.  I hoped and prayed that you would return to me, as I did for you, bringing your once boundless joy, mirth and hair tonic stained shirts back to the community, but alas, my heart remains lonely and my hopes are unfulfilled.  But fear not, Grandpa!  I will wait for you with Cheeto stained fingers, you god of men.

Meet the Neighbors

Like any good suburbanites, my wife and I have neighbors, and like any neighborhood, we have more than our fair share of annoying or bizarre neighbors. Honestly, what neighborhood would be complete without those? When you get home from work in the evening, don't you look forward to sitting behind the closed blinds of your front room window and peeking through to see what your neighbors decide to do next?

You don't? Then you don't know what you're missing! Pull up a stool and your favorite pair of binoculars, turn off the lights and get to spying! Well, okay, I understand. Neighbors, like chocolate milk on a sugary cereal, are an acquired taste. But I wouldn't suggest that you go out and try to taste your neighbors. Not only do they get soggy in milk, but you never know where those neighbors have been. That's a good way to get yourself arrested, and probably a nasty case of rabies. And cavities.

Now then. I happen to be the proud owner of two sets of lovely neighbors. First there are The Cults. They live across the street, so they make for prime viewing real estate. When they leave the house, that is. When ANYONE leaves the house. Even with all of their visitors, with as many people as I see going into that house, so few come out. There are ways. Oh, there are always ways. They don't call them "The Cults" for nothing!. They own a flooring business, and they're always bringing out rolls of carpeting, yet we never see any rolls going in. The ones that do come out are all lumpy in the middle, but I'll let you put 2 and 590,834 together.

Our other set of neighbors are my pride and joy. The Trolls live next door and due north of us, or as we like to call it "up wind." They are a bunch of foul smelling, loud, incestuous and hairy people. It's like living next to a family of Saskatchewan sasquatch (SpellCheck, what are you trying to do to me?) from [insert back-woods state here]. I have often said that every culture has their version of rednecks, and these people are definitely the rednecks of their culture. It doesn't matter what their culture is, because their culture isn't the problem. Personalities, not nationalities, if you know what I mean.

So those are the main two sets of neighbors. There are others, to be sure, but they are shining beacons of hope for humanity compared to the two dark pits of despair that cause me to cry myself to sleep at night. I don't want the hair to eat me, and I don't want to wind up in a rug or lost in the tunnels with only a lighter and a sock full of tater rounds. Don't make me go. Please!!