Dancing Queen
I was determined to be late to work today because half my office is on vacation, installing a new water heater, or generally lying about their kid needing a doctor’s appointment. Bastard lying parents.
I set my alarm clock for 8:00 am, normally when I shower, pushing showering back to 8:30, pushing NPR back to 8:40, pushing the daily scramble of finding my watch back to blah blah blah. But my room’s leaking instead. Not my room, the one of above me, which is leaking instead, right through the floor, right through my ceiling. The small drip I first notice quickly turns into a flow. My hyper-alert sense of smell detects only my own musk, so I’m confident the denizen in the room above has not wet themselves. And the liquid is clear, not like the perfect translucence of unicorn tears, but not yellow or brown or auburn or yellow or dingy brown. I can’t put a bucket in the corner because of the universal principle of round bucket versus the perpendicular walls, but I remember a piece of plastic piping that was sitting next to the service elevator in my apartment, so I dash out of my room wearing totally hot mesh shorts and a totally hot no-shirt look, like a Chippendale on vacation: yeah, I’m not trying, but obviously I dance and eat Special K and perform like a million crunches.
So I ram one end of the pipe in the corner of the ceiling. The pipe captures the leak. I stick the other end of the pipe out the window. I think, “if there is ivy climbing up the brick wall of my building, I’m watering it, and that’s the second principle of earth day: water things, and the first principle is: do no harm to the environment, not including mowing the lawn, cause it grows back.
I’m in the shower. I’m out. I’m on time. At least per the amended schedule. Someone’s knocking on the door.
“Really? Uh, shit. Sorry. Okay, I’ll fix it. I’m sorry. Yes. Now, I’ll fix it. Hang on. Stay there. Because I’m in my towel, that’s why. I’ll be right back.”
I move the hose to another window which should stop the flow of water on the baby grand piano below being moved in by a new resident. I apologize. I explain the leak. I cross my arms, almost bashful like, but let’s keep it real, are Chippendales hotter wet or dry? That’s all I’m saying. It’s really not debatable.
I’m dressed. I’m scrambling for my watch. I’m informing the management about the leak. I’m way later than usual leaving my apartment-I’m right on time.
Three blocks away from work I hear sirens in the distance. But before I hear the wail of horns and perceive the flash of lights on the coffee shop window, I think, “fuck, the air feels so still, but it’s so overcast, just like England. Why did I have no luck with women in England? Why didn’t I just say, ‘listen, I’m Italian. I’m American. This is multi-cultural, what if we do things different in a good way that you could tell your friends about, I’ll buy all your fucking beers tonight. This is so lame. I can’t score you pot first. I don’t even live here. Fine! I’ll find it, just, fuck!, I’ll do you too. Yes. Orally, hurry, now, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.’” Woah, these aren’t sirens for an ambulance---this is a massive armed motorcade.
Five or six black sport-utility somethings motor by (see: motorcade). And several more are to follow. When the second to last car passes, I hear and honest to god gunshot for the first time. Someone’s trying to snuff out someone else. This is suburban delight. Yes, this is a story for a law school application! Yes, how I survived, how cool I can keep it, mouth-to-mouth, et al. I’ll no longer be limited by a normal upbringing when applying for financial aid. I’ll have a worker’s compensation claim-I am the reason for the Brady Bill. Am I going to get shot or what.
So when a car tire blows out, it sounds like a gunshot. I understand that now. Nonetheless, a massive 15-car pile up ensues. Maybe some is hurt? How I survived. How I can keep it cool. Mouth-to-mouth. I rush to the car that hit the black suburban.
I drop my bag-dramatic like-and go the window of this green Audi. Lady, you okay? Lady? Say calm? I’m gonna help.
Sir! Sir! On the ground. Turn the fuck around! Face on the ground! A gunshot happens to sound a lot like a tire blow out. Several armed men erupt from the car, like tulips emerging from the ground in one of those time-lapsed video, but that video is on maximum forward speed. I’m face down on the pavement in the middle of the street about 2.5 blocks away from work. One guy, um, secures me with a foot to the back. I say things like, “woah,” and “holy shit dude, I was just seeing if that lady is okay.” He’s saying things like, “shut it, shut it fucker.”
I’m quiet for several minutes as several other men inspect their car’s tire and realize that it blew out. I notice that the pavement is hot from the friction of tires. I make this observation from the ground, “This pavement is hot.”
Well, apparently “hot” can mean “wired for explosives.” I’m plucked from the ground like a kitten by its scruff. I’m secured in the lobby of a McDonalds. After about 30 seconds, it’s abundantly clear that hot means, “temperature increased by tire fiction.” After 40 seconds, it’s abundantly clear that my name tag says my name and the location of my office, now 3 blocks away because we had to backtrack a bit to the McDonalds. After 60 seconds, I’m on my way to work. I’m late for work. I have street shit on my blazer. I am no longer on time. I’m going to get a bagel, double-toasted, with plain cream cheese.
Today’s gonna suck. But when I get home, I’m gonna masturbate, eat some tacos, nap, then find a club playing dance hits from the 70s and 80s. Here I come Abba.
I set my alarm clock for 8:00 am, normally when I shower, pushing showering back to 8:30, pushing NPR back to 8:40, pushing the daily scramble of finding my watch back to blah blah blah. But my room’s leaking instead. Not my room, the one of above me, which is leaking instead, right through the floor, right through my ceiling. The small drip I first notice quickly turns into a flow. My hyper-alert sense of smell detects only my own musk, so I’m confident the denizen in the room above has not wet themselves. And the liquid is clear, not like the perfect translucence of unicorn tears, but not yellow or brown or auburn or yellow or dingy brown. I can’t put a bucket in the corner because of the universal principle of round bucket versus the perpendicular walls, but I remember a piece of plastic piping that was sitting next to the service elevator in my apartment, so I dash out of my room wearing totally hot mesh shorts and a totally hot no-shirt look, like a Chippendale on vacation: yeah, I’m not trying, but obviously I dance and eat Special K and perform like a million crunches.
So I ram one end of the pipe in the corner of the ceiling. The pipe captures the leak. I stick the other end of the pipe out the window. I think, “if there is ivy climbing up the brick wall of my building, I’m watering it, and that’s the second principle of earth day: water things, and the first principle is: do no harm to the environment, not including mowing the lawn, cause it grows back.
I’m in the shower. I’m out. I’m on time. At least per the amended schedule. Someone’s knocking on the door.
“Really? Uh, shit. Sorry. Okay, I’ll fix it. I’m sorry. Yes. Now, I’ll fix it. Hang on. Stay there. Because I’m in my towel, that’s why. I’ll be right back.”
I move the hose to another window which should stop the flow of water on the baby grand piano below being moved in by a new resident. I apologize. I explain the leak. I cross my arms, almost bashful like, but let’s keep it real, are Chippendales hotter wet or dry? That’s all I’m saying. It’s really not debatable.
I’m dressed. I’m scrambling for my watch. I’m informing the management about the leak. I’m way later than usual leaving my apartment-I’m right on time.
Three blocks away from work I hear sirens in the distance. But before I hear the wail of horns and perceive the flash of lights on the coffee shop window, I think, “fuck, the air feels so still, but it’s so overcast, just like England. Why did I have no luck with women in England? Why didn’t I just say, ‘listen, I’m Italian. I’m American. This is multi-cultural, what if we do things different in a good way that you could tell your friends about, I’ll buy all your fucking beers tonight. This is so lame. I can’t score you pot first. I don’t even live here. Fine! I’ll find it, just, fuck!, I’ll do you too. Yes. Orally, hurry, now, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.’” Woah, these aren’t sirens for an ambulance---this is a massive armed motorcade.
Five or six black sport-utility somethings motor by (see: motorcade). And several more are to follow. When the second to last car passes, I hear and honest to god gunshot for the first time. Someone’s trying to snuff out someone else. This is suburban delight. Yes, this is a story for a law school application! Yes, how I survived, how cool I can keep it, mouth-to-mouth, et al. I’ll no longer be limited by a normal upbringing when applying for financial aid. I’ll have a worker’s compensation claim-I am the reason for the Brady Bill. Am I going to get shot or what.
So when a car tire blows out, it sounds like a gunshot. I understand that now. Nonetheless, a massive 15-car pile up ensues. Maybe some is hurt? How I survived. How I can keep it cool. Mouth-to-mouth. I rush to the car that hit the black suburban.
I drop my bag-dramatic like-and go the window of this green Audi. Lady, you okay? Lady? Say calm? I’m gonna help.
Sir! Sir! On the ground. Turn the fuck around! Face on the ground! A gunshot happens to sound a lot like a tire blow out. Several armed men erupt from the car, like tulips emerging from the ground in one of those time-lapsed video, but that video is on maximum forward speed. I’m face down on the pavement in the middle of the street about 2.5 blocks away from work. One guy, um, secures me with a foot to the back. I say things like, “woah,” and “holy shit dude, I was just seeing if that lady is okay.” He’s saying things like, “shut it, shut it fucker.”
I’m quiet for several minutes as several other men inspect their car’s tire and realize that it blew out. I notice that the pavement is hot from the friction of tires. I make this observation from the ground, “This pavement is hot.”
Well, apparently “hot” can mean “wired for explosives.” I’m plucked from the ground like a kitten by its scruff. I’m secured in the lobby of a McDonalds. After about 30 seconds, it’s abundantly clear that hot means, “temperature increased by tire fiction.” After 40 seconds, it’s abundantly clear that my name tag says my name and the location of my office, now 3 blocks away because we had to backtrack a bit to the McDonalds. After 60 seconds, I’m on my way to work. I’m late for work. I have street shit on my blazer. I am no longer on time. I’m going to get a bagel, double-toasted, with plain cream cheese.
Today’s gonna suck. But when I get home, I’m gonna masturbate, eat some tacos, nap, then find a club playing dance hits from the 70s and 80s. Here I come Abba.