Early in the morning you see species of animals that you never see any other time of the day.
And some species you only see on the weekends.
I woke up last Saturday morning with an unholy craving for an Egg McMuffin. (Yeah, yeah, I know – I know! I even read the book. But damnit, someday only a Egg McMuffin will persuade me to continue existing until noon.)
She was walking, kinda, carefully placing each stiletto-heeled foot in a more or less straight line. No stockings or socks. Skirt on asymmetrically and also on sideways. Bright, colorful top now wrinkled and untucked.
Bulging purse full of (I’m assuming) the rest of her clothes. Face like a first-day-on-the-job zombie. And hair that you can only obtain through a $400.00 stylist, or by sleeping on a kitchen floor with a dishtowel for a blanket and a half-full food bowl for a pillow.
Uh-oh. This week on Mutual Of Bacardi's Wild Kingdom: Party Flotsam.
I stopped at a light and watched her lurch past me, picking things out of her hair, cursing her high-heeled shoes and plainly registering exactly one thought on her haunted face, continuously, like a crawl at the top of her screen: “Where in the hell did I leave my car?”
Back when I worked for Ped-Ex as a bicycle delivery person I spent my Saturday and Sunday mornings on the roads from 5am to 8am. And I saw lots of party flotsam.
Sometimes they were carrying their non-sensible shoes in their hand. Sometimes they were endlessly searching through their blazer and jeans pockets for their wallet and / or car keys. Usually they were shivering, either from the early morning dawn or the dawning realization of what the hell they had done the night before.
Party flotsam can be dangerous too. I saw a young woman fall into a bush once, and not come out. One morning I saw a man in the middle of an empty parking lot slowly turning around and around with his arm extended, keys in hand, as if magically his car would appear after a certain number of revolutions. He eventually fell off of his feet.
Over the years I almost ran down several who were obliviously attempting to cross streets at hypotenuse angles. And I always thanked my lucky stars that these poor critters had not attempted to drive home the night before, and instead of crashing their car, they had opted to crash in the hallway, in the baby’s crib, on the stairs, or under the over-turned book case.
|Either remembrance has just kicked in,|
or they had hair last night.
But now, in the cold, merciless light of a Saturday or Sunday morning, too hung-over to be embarrassed, to empty to puke anymore (and too young and stupid to remember this lesson by next weekend), the quest for the god-damned car had begun yet again.
I also encountered lots of raccoons that time of morning, but they were way more cognitive and aware than the Party Flotsam.
(Pics from Mykey [who finds these things on the 'net and sends them to me], and the last two from the late, lamented Worth1000.com)