Respect the Hostas

Picture this... Syracuse. It is 2:30 in the morning and I am startled by the most ungodly of wretching noises. They were so loud and ghastly that under different circumstances I might have thought I was in a theater experiencing Hollywood Special fx. No. It wasn't that.

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Even though I just plagiarized that line, it is what actually happened. I looked out my window into the darkness, illuminated only by a silver Honda Accord.

This house is situated atop a great hill. A block below two city streets which climb the hill at an angle, resulting in but two houses at the top. There are no houses directly across the street. This is of interest in that there should be no reason for a strangers car to be parked outside at this hour. -Weird car and the horrible wretching continued.

I grabbed by robe and headed to the living room. There I pushed back the curtains, which startled a drunken 275 mound of blubber, vaguely formed as a man. He was now hacking and dry heaving. His drunken brain hadn't notified his stomach that he had nothing left to give. *Note: he is hovered roughly 35 feet from where he parked out front, and he is disrespecting Hostas, that are used to much pampering. This plant bed is right under the livingroom window.

I raced for the front door, but by the time I shut the alarm off and unlocked the thing, he was both lumbering and hunched over moving as quickly as he could to his vehicle. He really looked like a bear in a white dress shirt. He sped way before I could defend the Hostas' variegated honor.

Who does that, drives up to the top of a hill in the night; parks in front of a random house, walks past the street drain next to their car, and marches thirty-five to a planting bed to puke their guts out on lovely green things?

I crawled back into bed, then was unable to fall back to sleep for another three hours.

I am fortunate in that I already know the universe loves me, or I would wonder.