Pardon Me, I'm Stoned and I Don't Snowboard Very Often
There are three girls standing outside of my motel room.
Or at least I think it's mine.
These might be my beer cans strewn about the room. I may have been responsible for these little fingernail-sized piles of ash that litter the ground, the tabletops and even the bed sheets, as well as the ubiquitous flakes that fill the spots between. This might be my paraphernalia tucked vertically into a corner – named Long Duk Bong -- and that might be my "Sun's Out, Guns Out" sleeveless T-shirt draped over it. These might be my friends who are passed out -- one diagonally across the bedspread, the other spooning up against the heater – snoring and farting, "sleeping" off a hell of a binge that I've already hit the crest of and am now waiting for to collapse around and on top of me. But right now I don't know for sure.
All I really know is that those girls are really knocking really loudly. Right on the inside of my skull.
I've got too many foreign trains rolling violently sideways up the tracks of my system to be answering any doors. Especially if the door may not even be my own. In fact, the door being abused by those girls is actually spiraling away down a very long and poorly lit corridor at this very moment, in this very room, and I'm pretty sure the cordage of my spine is unraveling and that my head is about to start sparking and spinning, so those ladies are just going to have to wait a few minutes until I can get my shit together.
A few moments later, I reach my hand out to cover the first five or so miles of the corridor. Progress. Unfortunately, however, the horror of finding a makeshift medical splint on my wrist – made of a segment of ski-pole and a red scarf – made the next thirty or forty miles after that far too imposing. A great danger to my health and well being.
So instead of any valiant summoning of last-second animation, I shrink back into this busted chair and try to remember what they could be doing here. And whether they're responsible for this wrist thing.
And maybe whether they might have some shit on 'em.
So I cup my hands around my mouth to make sure my voice makes it down the spiraling hallway to the door at the far end, and shout: "Just a moment, please. I seem to have misplaced my bifocals."
