Eleanor Rigby
At 2:45 a.m. last night (actually, very early this morning), while I was in the midst of a deep sleep, someone frantically rang my front doorbell multiple times while simultaneously pounding savagely on the door and on the side of the house. After peeling myself off of the ceiling, I rushed half naked down the hall, caroming off a wall or two, in a state of muddled, sleep-infested incoherency, my heart beating wildly. All I could think of was that the house was on fire and my across the street neighbor -- the town fire chief -- was desperately trying to alert me to this fact. Upon reaching the front door, I threw it open, with breathless, adrenalized alacrity, to find... no one. Cool, placid air, filtering in through the screen, filled my hot, fraught face and nothing more.
It was, in short, a prank. One, mind you, that took me and both of my cats a couple of hours to completely calm down from, but a prank -- probably drunken -- nonetheless. I almost referred to it as "harmless" but it was far from that, at least for me.
It was, instead, a damaging reminder that being alone and adrift can sometimes be a debilitating, demoralizing experience.
It was, in short, a prank. One, mind you, that took me and both of my cats a couple of hours to completely calm down from, but a prank -- probably drunken -- nonetheless. I almost referred to it as "harmless" but it was far from that, at least for me.
It was, instead, a damaging reminder that being alone and adrift can sometimes be a debilitating, demoralizing experience.