Wakie, Wakie.


About 3:00 AM the other night, I was drifting in that very pleasant twilight that combining a clean conscience with vicodin leads to and was heading towards snoozumsland when a dark figure appeared in my bedroom door and announced “PSST. Psst. Psst. Psssssst.”

After I had finished screaming like a small, scared girl gifted with oversized lungs, I realized it was a drunken Secret Agent Fred.  Fred and our friend Stuart had last been seen hours earlier at some grimy Castro area bar and I had thought he was going to go back to his own house since a) that’s where he and Stuart were staying and b) that’s what he had said they were going to do.

Back in my boudoir, we traded bon mots consisting of tipsy giggles on Fred’s part and threats of immediate, painful mayhem on mine.  I sent him off to his bedroom and lay seething in bed wondering how my cat Saki can leave everyone who comes to Thanksgiving dinner bleeding but can’t guard me from one drunk poofter.

Fred was apologetic, sort of, the next day, although he did lean still towards the giggly, and asked why he had woken me.  I reminded him that after I had explained I was going to find a baseball bat and cave his skull in, the conversation had just petered out, so now we’ll never know.  Pity really.  I mean, when the cops arrest me for manslaughter, isn’t that going to be one of the first question they ask, too?

Fred wound up sleeping for 36 hours during which Stuart, who is visiting from Baltimore, moved out of Fred’s place and into a schmancy hotel here because he had no idea what had happened to Fred and had started entertaining visions of visits to the morgue, poor thing.  Also, Fred lost his phone, AGAIN, during his drunken spree which almost makes up for scaring me, but I still plan on dropping Saki on his head the next time I find him unconscious.  Sleep with one eye open, bitch.

Why can’t something like this appear late at night in my bedroom?  With a can of cashews?

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