Poetry / Something That Will Happen In Five Years In San Diego Where I Was Born

Something That Will Happen In Five Years In San Diego Where I Was Born
By JPW

Sighs as loud as squealing donkey noise.
The Air stinks of dusty suits, and elderly body oder. It stung my nose like hot Chinese mustard sauce.

All I could think about was my mistake of being friendly that Tuesday afternoon, and accepting an invite to this party.

Eyes at the far corner of the room glared at me like Peter glares at Lucifer when he comes to trick or treat.

Constant sniffling and deathly sounding coughs are making my left eye twitch and my right arm shake like a rattle on a snake.

I had to say something…

“So, Where can I find that potato salad?”

(Seven seconds of awkward silence proceeded)

“Have you tried the kitchen yet?”

old disgusting laughs filled the walnut painted living room as I returned a disturbed smirk to the egg-shaped man with the attitude.

I turned away and headed to the kitchen.
It felt like the laughs grew louder with every step I took.

I arrived, it felt like an hour to get there, in reality, it was only about a bakers dozen worth of steps.

On the counter was a wooden bowl filled with what looked to be something I threw up after seeing that new Indiana Jones movie.

At the bar to my left was a man with ridiculous black unkempt hair, and a five o’clock shadow, and on the beige carpet next to his ancient boots, was an empty bottle of scotch.

I returned my eyes to the puke bowl, and right after I did so he mumbled a sentence that could not have been human. I gazed upon him with a puzzled face, I could not speak.

He looked up at me with angry tired eyes and shouted something that sounded like:

“winWil beeeethir mur time toduuu whaaweeewaaana!”

My eyes grew wide, as he fell from the stool where he sat.

Eyes closed, and he wasn’t moving.

I thought to myself, did he just die?
I turned my attention back once again to the potato slime.
I was not about to feel this man’s pale sweaty neck to check for any pulse.

I’m sure he just passed out…

I’m sure he’ll be fine…

I scooped up a spoon-full of the salad, thinking to myself:

“Nothing could be worse then the people in this house.”

with a rejuvenated sense of confidence I swallowed down the spoon-full.

An immediate itch fiercely attacked the bottoms of my feet.

As I knelt down to untie my shoes I saw that my fingers were swollen like hot dogs. My skin went cold and sweat began to drop from the center of my forehead, like an annoying dripping faucet.

What I heard next was the laughs from the living room, only now they were above me.

The intense fear I had at that moment crippled my body as I now laid on the kitchen floor with itchy feet and hot dog fingers.

Vision then blurred.
Eyes soon closed.
The laughing remained for a couple more minutes, and then slowly morphed into the sound of ocean waves and seagulls overhead.

I opened my eyes.
I was on a beach.
my eyes shot over to my fingers, and I saw that they had returned to their normal finger state.
There was no more foot itch either.

I stood up and walked over to the ocean.

A small wave came in and washed up to shore…

...an empty bottle of scotch.

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