Mondays

Years ago, when I was living in an "up and coming neighborhood" in Washington, D.C., my friend, Susan, was the first of my Alabama compatriots to pay me a visit. My house was a brand new federal-style townhouse, but it was also the first part of the neighborhood to be built up, so the surroundings were less than ideal. (I was just a tad accustomed to seeing crime scene tape on a semi-regular basis by the time I moved out.) Susan insisted on taking the subway, and since the stop was only 1 block from my house, I assumed that everything would be fine. (As a side note, I can't get used to saying "the el." I still want to say "metro" every time I talk about the train in Chicago. Why in the world does every city have to call their public transportation something different? I think it's odd. But, I guess it could be worse - I could be referring to Marta.) Anyway, about an hour after we talked, Susan still hadn't knocked on my door. Truthfully, knowing Susan, this wasn't that big of a surprise, and I didn't think much of it. (I add 45 minutes to all of Susan's eta's.) My roommate and I went out on our balcony and waited. And, about thirty minutes later, I saw her. There was Susan - wandering, dazed and a bit tilted to one side, down the alley behind my house. I called out to her, ran around to bring her inside the house, and then asked why she was walking behind all of the houses rather than coming through the manicured courtyard to the front door. She turned her eyes to me in something that I would call a "look of death." Susan then explained that she was lucky to even be there. Apparently, in the 1 block from the metro station to my house, Susan had been accosted by a man who wanted to sell her a dead pigeon wrapped in newspaper (Susan offered him double his asking price not to make her take the pigeon), and had a discarded shoe chucked at the back of her head by a homeless man (he missed.) In short, she was not pleased and thought I should pack my things and move out with her that night. But, instead we went to a bar, and all was smoothed over. (This tends to happen once Susan and I find a bar.) And, now Susan and I like to reference that night whenever there's a need for an "it could be worse" comment. So, as you sit at your desk today, thinking that the whole work week is ahead of you, ask yourself this one little question, "Is there a dead pigeon?" And, if the answer is "no," keep your hope alive. If, for some very odd reason, your answer is "yes," you'll have to fall back on the nearly foolproof, "Is there a shoe that probably spent at least 2 weeks in a city gutter flying at my head?"