Does anyone have a good word for the wind? You know, that riptide in the ocean of air in which we all bump around like a goldfish in a bowl.
Last week I heard the wind screaming at me. Curious, I pulled a sweater over my head and went out for a walk. Immediately, my face was sandblasted with the residue of street sanding. Dead leaves swirled about my feet like wounded minnows.
I slumped along slowly, surveying the impact of the wind on my fellow bipeds.
I saw my first specimen nearly a block away. A tall two-legger marched toward me. When the pedestrian came within a few yards of my face, I noticed something odd about him.
He wore a dress.
Beneath a jacket trimmed in lamb’s hide fluttered a purple print frock with little white flowers. I had no idea what had convinced the fellow he should take a hike in a purple print frock. But his face held a clue. It was wadded into a prune configuration by steaming anger,
He passed by and was growing smaller before I could say, “Hey, buddy. Nice dress.”
I flashed back to thousands of sessions of the Fraternal Order of the Unknown Drunks (of which I am a member).
A common story among the FOUD is the tale of the husband whose wife attempted to deprive him of alcohol by hiding the car keys or all of his pants.
None of those fellows went dry for long. One drove to town on his John Deere tractor. Another walked to the pub wearing one of his wife’s dresses and a look on his face that said, “One crack out of you and I’ll bust your pumpkin.”
Though it was early evening, feral folks were scarce. Two blocks later on my hike, I found an old fellow lying up against a building. A bright white star seemed to grow from his mouth. It looked like a sea anemone had grown from his tongue. A second homeless man tried without effect to get old White Star back on his feet.
Kids running through the night without hats or jackets made up the bulk of the after dark herd.