Last night the erstwhile blog bully, his wife, and I trundled off to see The Mousetrap at Shotgun Players (it's extended! you can see it too!). When we sat down, the lady behind us expressed her concern that the blog bully's outdoor hat had a bit too much height for optimal theatre etiquette and that she wouldn't be able to see anything at all. Not to worry. He had thought of that. He reached his hand out to his wife, like a toddler demanding Cheerios, and she produced from her bag a snug-fitting indoor knit cap. They did a swap and all was well. That is, I say all was well, but the joint was just filled with murders and suspicious characters. An evening fraught with drama. But I'll never tell who done it.
The woman next to me had a nervous habit of twirling her hair, which might not have affected me in the least if she had kept her twirler close to her own, personal head. However, her method involved first combing her hair with her fingers, straight out and to its full length, before twirling it back again. meaning that much of the operation was a good deal closer to my head than hers. She did this, unconsciously, I think, for the better part of two hours. Only because Santa and the baby Jesus are on high alert this week, I restrained myself from telling her to knock it off. I eventually contrived to comb my own hair half way over my left eye in order to eliminate my peripheral vision. Naturally, that didn't block out her companion's insightful whispered commentary such as "isn't it a nice set?" in the middle of the Act II climax, but it did improve things considerably. Besides, I already regarded the evening a success since the artistic director had flashed a peace sign at me from across the room at intermission. Look, that may not count as a big thrill for you, but I've always had a crush on the artistic director.
The curtain came down and we rebundled ourselves (hat swap: activate) and headed to the BART station across the street where there were two fire trucks and at least eight police cars. At first it appeared that the entrance to the station had been cordoned off, but it was still passable. What we could see was a lot of police tape, a great many police officers, a homeless person's shopping cart and sleeping bag, a woman with a bandage on her head and...basically nothing else. No one in handcuffs. No trace of blood. What happened that could have possibly required a response by eight cars? I don't know, but I can tell you this. It is very unsatisfying to come out of an Agatha Christie murder mystery straight into a crime scene and be provided with no narrative arc whatsoever. Real life. Pffffft.
When we finally made it home, we walked up the hill from the 24th Street station in a light rain, my companions easily chatting and me breathlessly trying to speak (their level of fitness exceeds mine exponentially. It's embarrassing). As we made our way, several strangers lurched toward us to say, "Happy Holidays!" They did not appear drunk, exactly, so much as insistent. Well, except that one guy. That one guy had had a few. It was late on Christmas Eve Eve, so people's Christmas spirit was heating up, certainly, but it was still unusual. "And to you!" I would reply, trying not to look startled.
As we stood on the corner waiting for the light to change, the blog bully pushed his hat back a bit to keep it from slipping over his eyes. "Oh!" he said. "Maybe it's my hat?"
Right. So accustomed are we to seeing the blog bully in a hat, we stopped noticing that, for the occasion, he was not wearing his usual outdoor cap that looks something like this:
But Instead, one that looked a lot more like this:
Yep. That'll be it then.
It's Christmas Eve! Wishing each of you well-wishing passers by, warm heads filled with visions of sugar plums. and no crimes at all--unexplained or otherwise.