I've never needed a cold can of beer so badly.
I hate to be the type to complain about weather, but cripes man, it's stickier than a mousetrap covered in tree sap.
Muggier than... a .. guy getting mugged.
and I am Count Sweat'n'stein.
The walk from mid-Quinpool to Smith St. is not a long one, but between the tepid, vaporous air, the exceptional dryness of the inside of my mouth and the fact that my clothes felt like microwaved cling-wrap, it was an ordeal.
Around the halfway home point I could feel a small rock lodged in the grippy pattern on the underside of my sneaker.
When I tried to jostle it free I realized there was something else on the bottom of my sneaker.
Something squishy that was now smeared on my right hand.
Too uncomfortable to confirm what it was, I brushed it off on my jeans, assuming it was gum or a dropped piece of food.
A block or so later, when scratching my nose, I realized it was dog shit.
I thought to myself, I hope this isn't one of those nights where I randomly bump into a mysterious stranger, or an old friend, or my future self having travelled back through time to give me an important message, because this menagerie of unpleasant odours radiating furiously from my body is repulsive.
I needed beer now more than ever.
More than that time I was at that bar.
And home was still six, seven minutes away.
When I reached the unusually quiet Robie St./Spring Garden Road intersection, I stopped.
There I was.
At the crossroads.
Waiting for the Devil to appear.
My soul for an icy can of imported beer?
Hell yeah. Take my watch too.
I waited, but he never showed.
He probably doesn't like the smell of dog shit either.