Having a Great Time; Wish You Were Here

6 Apr

The ladies were ladies in the insufferable southern way older ladies comport themselves when they gather in a large group and attend Sunday brunch, just after a soul-(and colon) cleansing visit to the House of God. That is to say: badly coiffed and colored, horribly dressed in spring, pastel pantsuits, incredibly chatty and mean spirited to a familiar party which, of course, was absent from the mid-morning soireé (the knives may be as sweet as the ice tea in the South, but they nevertheless get plunged into the back with as contemptuous a savagery as a fuming Mongol), and mostly malcontent with the size and price of the breakfast with which I was hoping to ameliorate and buttress up a horrific hangover. Several dozen times before a server with a pitcher of water was even spotted feigning toward their table, I had to endure cackling lamentations of times past when eggs and grits, and a simple cup of coffee cost so and so many dimes and nickels.

The previous night, while trapped in a horrifically slow-moving elevator, I was privy to a disgusting exchange between an inebriated fraternity boy donning a suit and a backwards Alabama Crimson Tide baseball hat making a pass at a tipsy forty-something phlegmatic divorceé who was in much love with the idea of being courted by a southern-born and bred young man. The scene was an odd Bosch-like vision of gluttonous, weird parasites attempting to hijack one another’s load of blood through cunning linguistic flattery. Or maybe that was just the whisky hitting back. In any case, the twelfth floor seemed obtusely stretched and elongated beyond the heights of The Empire State Building. Conversation is murder.

So here I was, sat at a small table by the window, waiting for the caffeine to work its elemental magic on the dehydration brought about by the previous night’s debauchery, even planning on writing a long note (in less-than-perfect penmanship) outlining my brief getaway to this sunny place inhabited by shady people, when the group of complaining hens behind me in effect killed every desire to take even one more breath on this lousy planet. I left a tip and exited quickly by the sea side doors, outside of which I was met by an oversized, grinning man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, holding on to a leash attached to a stocky, white English bulldog who, startled by my sudden appearance in the bright courtyard, became overly excited and vomited his pink and grey breakfast on my toes.

“Way-ell now, hehe” the brute said. “I sure am sorry ’bout that.”


3 Responses to “Having a Great Time; Wish You Were Here”

  1. mssimmo 07/04/2009 at 6:36 PM #

    I’m so hooked on your stories I almost threw up! LOL!

  2. Mike Camel 08/04/2009 at 1:23 PM #


    How does one go about writing fiction?

    I’ve never quite found the trick. It seems too preposterous to be possible. Especially inventing characters.

    This.. ahhh… vignette (that’s the word, isn’t it?) reminds me more of a very living photograph of a morning I never lived but one day quite possibly may, or may not, it doesn’t matter. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the problem with pictures is that most of them are bound to a single instant in time.

  3. (S)wine 08/04/2009 at 1:27 PM #

    One tells little lies in just the right places, is how I think one goes about writing “fiction.”

    This thing here reminds me of a spring morning about 15 years ago when I was scheduled to travel to the west coast of the States. I woke up to catch an early flight, and just off the bed I stepped into my cat’s vomit–a nice little gift she’d left me overnight. I flew across the country, was met by my friend, was provided with great accomodations. The following morning, I woke up in his guest room, and…stepped into dog vomit–a nice little gift his pooch had left me overnight.

    Time and fate are circular. I think.

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