let it grow until peace comes

“If you don’t take money,
they can’t tell you what to do, kid.”

— the prophet bill cunningham

I wake up in my bed next to a teenage couple.

This is odd, because I never woke up in bed next to a teenage couple even when I was a teenager. I once woke up next to an elderly woman on a Greyhound bus during an icy Christmas holiday, but this seems different. Very different.

I get up, brush my teeth and get back in bed, assuming they will be gone, but they are not. They appear to be 18, thin and bohemian, the Generation Whatever equivalent of presenting themselves as “hippies.” Fallout from the 50th anniversary of Woodstock, I suppose.

They seem annoyed that I have come back. They say they’re staging a Bed-In for Peace, having seen it done once by some musician and his weird artist wife. They don’t offer a reason as to why my bed is their staging ground. They are surprised there is no media at the event. I consider pointing out that I AM the media, but mostly I just want to go back to sleep. I ask if they might try a Go Somewhere Else for Peace instead. Given the lack of hoopla currently surrounding them, they grudgingly agree.

Standing at the doorway, the guy wants me to flip him off for a photo for his Instagram account. I do not want to flip him off for a photo, given that I no longer have an Instagram account. I flash a peace symbol instead. He flips me off.

They get in a huge, purple bicycle-like vehicle constructed of tubing, a towering contraption which appears to be a discard from Burning Man. They do wheelies in my yard, which is odd because I don’t have a yard.

Turning to go back in, I notice a pizzeria has appeared, built into the apartment. It’s doing spectacular business despite the early morning hours. There is also a small convenience store, which seems convenient. I suspect this is why they are called convenience stores.

I buy a Dr Pepper, not because I want one but because I want to lecture the clerk on how Dr Pepper does not have a period. Style is important, I tell him. Google Bill Cunningham sometime, I add. And get off my lawn, you kids. Which is odd, because I don’t have a lawn. He appears to be staging an I Don’t Care Leave Me Alone for Peace.

I chug the Dr Pepper as I walk back to the bedroom. I pull the blanket over my head, only to realize I can no longer sleep because of the caffeine, and because of a lingering doubt as to whether I should have caught a ride to Burning Man. Oh, well. There’s always the Greyhound bus.

And then I wake up.

I should probably stage a Bed-In for Peace. But only after I get some pizza.

About gary

no sock monkeys were harmed in the making of this blog.
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