You never quite know what is going on, because the 1940′s cadillac keeps crashing into the same old wall over and over, spilling a large sack of beans all over the motorway. Passers-by, dressed as goblins, meander across the road, strangely unaware of the frogger-like obstacle before them. Oddly enough, they never trip once, despite their ignorance of the failed sphere’s of death that travel by nature’s force to the lowest crevices in the pavement.
Cups. Lots of them. Passed to and fro between slightly soused individuals carefully – or not so – enjoying their time in the shade produced behind apparatuses only fit for an amusement park. The bright lights behind these shadow-inducing light-obstacles dazzle with their brilliance, leaving one to ponder the deeper things of life. Where does light come from? Would that bulb break if you bit it hard enough, or did the engineers spend their time in a little lab testing their product against a massive list of requirements, one of which includes “half-crazed man so hungry he decides to eat lightbulbs?”
Bide your time. They will wait. Slowly… no, more slowly. Is that a cop? No, perhaps… perhaps he will not notice me. Will he? Is this rather large collection of hotel towels shoved down my pants going to draw his attention, or only the attention of the buxom ladies at the counter? They do keep staring at me. Perhaps it is a sign. The cop is glancing my way. Perhaps he, too, is jealous.
I must get away. Fast. But I can’t get away fast. My legs won’t move. One before the other, in a feverish haze I command my neurons to fire. Clump. Clump. Clump. Oh, the monotony of walking! There must be some way to make it interesting so that it will refuse to torment me with its boredom. Yes, that is it. Rhythmically change speed of my legs. No, not rhythm. That produces monotony.
The headache! Should I sleep or wake? I am awake, so that means I can only sleep. No, wait. That does not work. I must sleep. Sleep. But I am not sleeping yet because I am thinking about sleeping, which means I am awake. Or am I? Good God! I must be dreaming! Dreaming? I shall pinch myself and… goodness that metal feels cold. It must be real. Are dreams real? Maybe they are. They sure seem real when you are in them. How do we know real life isn’t a dream? Oh the shock we will feel waking up to … but… gosh, the headache!
I am driving a car. I am not fit to drive a car, but perhaps, though I am not fit, if I spend my time acting as if I were sober I will succeed in avoiding getting arrested. Yes, that is it! Good God! I am a genius. Why didn’t anyone think of that before? It is all so simple. Act sober when you are drunk. Nobody will notice. Nobody will notice at all. Or will they?
After all, it works when you act drunk while you are sober.
Inspired by Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and written sober. Or is it?
