Axiom: If you're sober enough to be troubled by the cold discomfort of the bathroom floor, it's probably safe to go to bed.
It's nice to hear that my favorite bar owner has missed me, since I'm neither a frequent visitor nor a copious consumer, so therefore professionally unmemorable.
It's good to see the bald dude, but it doesn't require more than a few moments. However, quick-minded entertaining people who are free of the aaaaahhhctor double blade of ego and insecurity can keep me occupied for hours.
"Let's do vodka shots," says W., ever friendly and charming. Okay. She brings them, accompanied by sugar-coated lemons.
Do NOT let me have another of these.
"No, just one. Salud!"
Drink the vodka. Bite the lemon. Yummy. It won't hit 'til later, the feeling of having consumed an alcoholic beverage. But the notion of invincibility, as though I can drink as if I were 6'2" and 220 lbs. is instantaneous. I have much more fun than I bargained for, listening to the jukebox, drinking tiny Miller Lites and losing at pool. I restrain myself from biting W.'s tender neck, as her fiancee is present. I content myself with running one fingernail along it. I only came in for a beer.
I plunk down on a barstool, one eye on baseball and one on the new beertender. His name is Mike. He gives me the bad news about the Ravens game. It's been a weird weekend. I need this beer.
"Cybele? I'm not coming in on Monday, after all. I'm coming in tonight."
Really? What time, do you think?
"Well, like, now."
Come on, then. Young Evan will lurk in my basement until I clear the guestroom. Hilby and Martin won't arrive until Friday anyway.
Axiom: If you park your car somewhere other than where you usually park it, it will be dark when you go to look for it.
Larry's reassuring presence keeps me from parking lot panic. The rain has caused large-scale adjustments in our parking patterns.
"Is that it?"
No, we're looking for dark green. Right. On an unlit lot.
"Oh, a Cherokee-type. I thought we were looking for a JEEP Jeep."
Yeah. And we would be, if the Jeep were mine. But it's not, so here we are on a black and crowded waterlogged lot, looking for the BoringMobile.
I am incognito, out of makeup, in mufti. I order coffee and drink it from an aluminum travel mug. I make a call on my cell phone. I refrain from making faces at patrons. I talk to Sandy as she braids my hair. All of this is so strange to me. I keep waiting for someone to call me out: "HEY! Aren't you that mime?" No one does.
"This group of high school students arrived and started singing at the Globe stage."
"Well, they apparantly had called the entertainment director, asked if they could perform, been told 'No' and then showed up anyway."
They crashed the Globe?
"Yeah, they did. 'No one else is performing here right now', they said."
They crashed the Globe. Brilliant.
I am greeted by cheers and congratulations. People thank me for a good laugh, a good story. I am the village hero of the moment. I'm embarassed, as I was ashamed to have lost my temper. And yet, when the collective loveliness of the moccasin booth stands to applaud, I take a bow.
"Oh, it was mad, people being taken away in cuffs and everything."
"They arrived drunk. Justin found beer cans on the parking lot."
"Did you hear about the girls mud wrestling?"
"Well, after they pushed over the privy..."
"Yeah, it's from a movie, I never saw it, but....anyway, they push over the privy with some guy in it, I think they knew him..."
"Exactly, and these girls went through the hole that was made in the privy wall to the area behind the joust, you know?"
Idiots. And then they start...
"Right, wrestling in the mud, throwing it at each other, except it wasn't mud."
"Yep. They were flinging horse poo."
Axiom: When there is an Us vs. Them mentality, heroism is defined by one of Us getting some of our own back from Them.
It's been raining on and off all day, mostly on. Patrons have arrived anyhow, some few intrepids willing to drip and slog. That Girl and I have been dashing colorfully from shop to shop and blowing bubbles through our fingers. We carry buckets and rags, and we pause between booths, deciding where to go next. Suddenly, a loud voice roars in my ear, frightening a scream from me. That Girl, startled, looks at someone behind me. I turn. A young man in a striped shirt is dodging away.
Shocked silence falls on this sector of the village. I feel expectation in the air. Will Mimi let this pass? She will not. She must not.
I turn to face my attacker, nearly blind with indignation, and douse him with the contents of my bubble bucket. Still furious, I stalk away to wild cheering from the booth workers.
Ugh. It's raining. I roll over, wrapping myself in the covers before flinging them back to face the world. I have done this before. We can do this again. We will manage to be bright spots of color against the grey drab. I don't even mind getting my feet wet.
It's wet socks I can't stand.
Early Monday morning, I look at myself in the mirror.
Axiom: No matter what sensible, sober, hairdo protective reason you had for doing it the night before, it still feels incredibly stupid to wake with a pair of pantyhose tied to your head.
(Windy; The Association)