Wheels up in 8 hours.
Just outside my window a handful of high-school-age boys has gathered to use the word, “Niggaz,” in various animated sentences. I think they’re probably carrying the prerequisite for unwrapping the noun but I don’t know that they’ve earned the mandate to paint my windows and ears with their brand of its particular musicality. Not at 2:30 in the morning.
“OY! Poet Laureates!” I say, gaining their undivided attention as is my wont. “Show yourselves some respect and shut the fuck up. Not necessarily in that order!”
I take a step back to step in and therefore find two piles of stringy, slippery, warm, sticky, and putrescent dog puke at the head of the bed.
Green like something Superman might shun.
Dog’s like, “Fight the poweh!”
So I’m retching and scraping up these piles of bile and nastiness that by rights should have found their path all the way to my dog’s butt hole and, by consequence, into my neighbors Hydrangeas when a piece flicks off my lip and up my nostril.
I freeze because nothing can hurt you when you’re standing still. Silence. A complete silence that smells like bile and tastes like guts.
“BLAMMO!” A beer bottle hits my window. When it does that it makes the sound, BLAMMO! as one would expect. In my case however I didn’t see “BLAMMO!” coming. I was anticipating silence and as such the piece of partially digested dog gut booger that flicked off of my lip is now lodged firmly behind my eye and maybe in my brain.
That’s where I keep my soul, people.
I know, right?
Wheels up in 6 hours.
Stupid guys who call each other, “Niggaz.”