Uproarious laughter falls out of the garden as the shattering of glass soon follows. A taxi rolls up with the meter already running, now up to $4.25. Throwing up blood is still cheaper in the backseat of a taxi than flagging down an ambulance. Not including the surcharge for calling ahead.
"We have to deglove his feet," says the driver, now the passenger, handing over the warm driver's seat to the man in chartreuse. "Better be quick before he goes into shock."
"Just drive!" shouts the other, a bald one. But she doesn't like talking about it. So we'll leave her at that.
The radio picks up and scatters the reportage of their already-in-the-making escapade and shambles of an after-dinner mint after-party. It's crackly and the announcer takes a breath where the words should be. It's Mad Libs, but without the context.
On the lookout, they're looking out for those out and about with a radio in one ear and a worm in the other. Like the margianalised gays of sadder times, they're at their wits' end driving through the dark with no headlights.
"Why are we always late to these things?" asks the woman to neither of them but to the man wearing his dinner all along his smoking jacket.
The journey is long and quiet. Save for the screams and groans from the man with feet for mittens. The two in the front are quieter still. Listening intently with their noses to see of any oncoming traffic or curbs that suddenly come up and scrape the bottom of the car.
Now, a little unsure, she asks just herself, "Is this even the right body?"
Written on Friday, 3 June 2011