Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Part of a Nutritious Breakfast

I look out the window of the Residence Inn Suite and count nearly a half-dozen police cruisers running cold as they begin converging in front of the studio I’ve rented for my sister Susan’s high-school prom after-party.  I step back from the window and scan the thirty-plus faces and fail to see Susan.

This will not end well.

The DJ (Yes, the fucking DJ.) gives me a puzzled look as I quickly walk to the kitchen area, smiling as I remove the bag of weed from my back jeans pocket.  Everyone here is hit, and starting a panic before I need one will only make things worse.

I shook the cereal boxes on top of the refrigerator, finding the “Fruity Pebbles” one to be the fullest.  I saw my former colleague’s K9 Unit cruiser was among the sharks - both a blessing and curse.  I bury the bag under the loose cereal, roll up the plastic and close the top before I return it to the top of the fridge.

Madison Heights’ finest would be calling 10-23 and putting the cruisers in park by now.  The good thing about this many showing up is the few extra seconds they’ll take to gossip like schoolgirls before getting to the door.

I move a bit faster as I hit the stairs – I need to find my sister.  Now.

The second floor is constructed in such a way that a person can see the entire studio over a half-wall leading to the bathroom - which I found empty.  Damn.  I stand at the half-wall and scan the room - she isn’t there, which means she isn’t here - damn ninja.

I grabbed the first thing I saw – an alarm clock – and pounded on the top part of the half wall like I was Caesar-Fucking-Nero.  All I needed was a toga and laurel.  As I continued banging I summoned up my best R. Lee Ermey:

“THE.  POLICE.  ARE.  HERE.  LEAVE!   GET THE FUCK OUT!   NOW!  GO!”

I have to admit I found the ensuing chaos hilarious from my vantage point, but I could hear a Maglite banging on the door over the cacophony and needed to be the first to the door.  I’d have to miss the show to become part of it……’story of my life.

I made the door in a couple of seconds, took a deep breath and smiled – there was zero-margin for error – and opened the door while simultaneously stepping through it, slamming it closed the second my heel cleared the doorframe.

This did not make them happy - but I had to try and hold the cork in the bottle for as long as possible.  If the officers enter they'll be exponentially more likely to arrest people.  At least this way they'd have to earn their dinner.

“Ohhhhhiiiii guys.” I said, voice dripping with surprised concern:  “Sooooo time to go, huh?”
My former colleague: “Dick” motioned with his finger for me to follow him.  At least he didn’t have the fucking dog out.  Yet.

I was less than three steps away from the front of the studio when I heard the champagne bottle explode.  It was like fucking poetry.  The next 20 minutes were like a goddamn Monte Python skit.

While that played out, I got the dressing down of my life from Dick, which conveniently kept me away from the people being issued tickets.  See, my sister had decided to have a hoola-hoop contest in the suite, with prizes that included high-end booze.  A lot of high-end booze.

After I took my licks I asked if I could go inside and grab the food from the kitchen to take home, hinting that the $500 worth of unopened booze wouldn’t be missed.

You’re goddamn right I walked out with my Fruity Pebbles.  

Bosco extracted me from the circus and I tried to call my sister for the nth fucking time – this time she finally answered:

“Helloooooo…?”
“Where in the fuck are you?”
“Across the street having a drink.”
“How in the fu….”
“Jumped out the second floor window.  I think I broke a heel.  Come get me.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”


Total score:  0 Arrests – a fistful of tickets (none mine) – and minus $500 in top-shelf liquor.
Oh yeah…..and the hotel deposit.  There was no fucking way I was getting that back.

But I got my Fruity Pebbles.

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