I work the night shift. Shit goes down outside my window. It’s mostly bizarre, like a strange college play, put on by the guy that owns more than one beret which is fitted to cover his long thin ponytail, and more often than not, in regular conversation, pronounces words with a faint english accent.
The city is drunk. Sirens abound. The air is stale and smells like piss and booze. Tightly parked cars try to wiggle their way out onto the street. Blanketed homeless folks curl under awnings or sandwich themselves between the gaps of old buildings. Girls in short skirts and glitter slur and stumble in their off brand neon heels. They giggle with their iPhones out, instagramming selfies with their mouths open or lips pursed. Bros share flasks as they check their reflection in the windows of tinted cars. Their conversations generally use the phrases, “I’m faded” or “Dat ass.” This would all be amusing if they didn’t attempt to vomit or piss on my workplace.
There goes the neighborhood, right?
I’d be right there with them if I had regular hours.