I’m fast asleep in my bed when I am awakened by a loud crash/bang/boom which I immediately identify with some kind of commotion (i.e. loud, drunken assholes who have no sense of consideration for sleeping people) going on between the front door of the building and the stairs…because that’s the wall my bed is up against. Along with this giant thud that sounds like Thor just took a freefall from Valhalla comes the sound of framed pictures being tossed from the wall onto the floor just behind my head, because that wall is closest to the door and thus takes the brunt of such commotions. Did I hear breaking glass?
Where am I?
What’s been destroyed?
Should I get up to look for shards of glass on the floor and to mourn the death of some irreplaceable framed rock star artifact?
No, I’ll wait until morning. Nothing can be done now. Bastards.
So, this morning I take a peek at the detritus of last night’s destruction and what I see is one (only one!) frame laying face down on the floor. I lift it gingerly by a corner to avoid any accidental lacerations and find it’s my 8″x 10″, live-in-concert, one-of-a-kind photo of Richard Butler from the Psychedelic Furs, which he personally signed with a big fat silver sharpie more than 20 years ago. Glass not broken. Awesome.
A few of the smaller framed pictures that sit on the shelf above the radiator have moved ever so close to the edge of that self, but remain on the shelf. Me: feeling lucky.
After I get out of the shower I head for the computer to check the email. On the floor to the left of my computer lies my Cleopatra Records wall clock. Beside it on the floor: the battery, which has shaken loose of the clock’s back by the sheer force of being thrown from the wall. The face of the clock reads: 12:25. Now I even know the exact time of the attack. I replace the battery in the clock and return to the bathroom to continue my morning routine. Fifteen minutes later, the minute hand has not moved.
The clock is broken.
That is my story.