I was reading a friend's blog post about her pizza mishap, and I wondered, did I ever tell you about the time...
Several years ago, Daylight Savings Time had just sent me into my annual hibernation tailspin. Street lights are uncommon in our suburban neighborhood. I have to strain my eyes to see any movement out front, unless a car occasionally passes by and the headlights briefly illuminate the yard. This at 5:00 p.m. I hate early darkness!
It was all I could do to stay awake as I waited for my professor friend to arrive that evening.
Stifling a yawn, I put on a fresh pot of coffee and prepared a platter of banana nut and blueberry muffin slices for us.
It's hard to see our driveway at night, so instead of pulling in, she parked out front on a triple-wide sidewalk, which also serves as a parking pad for the ten houses on our side of the road. Across the road is an overgrown block-long, former truck farm, which only makes it seem darker.
The aroma from the Papa John's Pizza, a block away, wafted through the front door on a crisp autumn breeze. After SO many years of eating that five buck pie (year-long introductory price when they first arrived in town) the smell acts as a deterrent, and I usually close the front screen door when the wind is blowing our way. Not that evening.
My friend and I sat in the living room nibbling our muffins, discussing our writing and lamenting the lack of publishing opportunities. We heard a minor collision out front, followed by swearing. We ran across the lawn through the darkness to see what had had happened. A car whizzed by, spotlighting a middle aged bicyclist sprawled at the end of our drive. He was trying to upright himself and retrieve the upside down Papa John's pizza box.
"Who the hell parks on the sidewalk?!" He mumbled and fumbled in the dark, swearing.
"Sorry. Are you alright?" I startled him so badly he dropped the pizza box again. The lid opened, and he scraped the gooey mess back inside. He eye-balled us, confused.
"Do you want me to call someone for you?" I asked. "Are you hurt?"
"Lady, pleathe don't call the cops. I didn't thee your car. Pleathe don't call the cops, I'm not thupposed to be driving on a DWI, and I'm drunk again."
Assured he was uninjured, I told him to drive safely, and watched as he got behind the bent handle bars and wobbled on down the road.
Sometimes, I don't know what comes over me. Back indoors, I lost my professional demeanor and broke into song.
"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore`. When a drunk hits your car like he's been at a bar, that's amore`."
Sometimes, I can't stop myself.