6:00am … finally! Now we can enjoy the Continental Breakfast that the hotel offered, for the very prompt employee had to follow the rules which she had so vehemently enforced, a mere 30 minutes ago when an attempt to snag a donut on the way up to the room had been forestalled.
The night spent on Beale Street, Home of the Blues, had been quite the adventure, enhanced by a hit of, Grateful Dead stamped blotter of acid.
Still finding humor in something so simple as watching the light bounce from one number to the next as the elevator made it’s way to the eight floor from the first, hearing Ronnie’s hideous laughter seemed natural.
Reeling from the comradely of being on the same wavelength I only assumed that Ronnie was enjoying the dancing light as well… only to realize that he was laughing at himself … peeing in the bin of the ice machine, located to the side of said doors, that was decorated with the dancing light.
At that moment, I didn’t know what was the most hideous … his laughter, his snaggle toothed grin … or the thought of some one mixing them selves up a drink saying, “You know, this cheap Scotch ain’t too bad, got a little bit of a whang to it tho!”
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