found drama

It’s the aftermath of a party.  Some childish, totally juvenile bash of high schoolers trying on adult vices.  Drinking and drugs and sex all forced down our throats by ourselves.  It was too early to try and too late to hold ourselves back.  But that’s all past now and I’m the only one left from the night before.  Everyone else has scurried off and I’m left alone.  We’d broken into a building for our little hurrah – – an old Project that was long ago locked down and boarded up, chainlink fenced in and otherwise cast out.  The cops knew we were here.  Or maybe they didn’t know until it was too late and the building was flaming up as much as our blood was.  Come that first crack of pink dawn though, their sirens raced down ear canals to beat on tympanic membranes.  They lurked outside in their grim patrol, mid-80’s Cop Show style cruisers with their red and blue lights winking 360 degrees, going all the way around the outside.  I struggle to get my clothes back on.  We’d discovered the night before that it wasn’t safe to go upstairs, so I’m trapped in the lobby.  But the lobby is all glass and metal beams and there is but one place where I can stand to dress and not be spotted.  But every time I lift my leg to put my pants on, a swarm of bees closes in, buzzing around my face and bare shoulders, stingers threatening.  It’s impossible to tell which will be worse, getting stung or getting arrested.  I keep ducking and swatting.

About Rob Friesel