The Return from Austin

Returned home last night, greeted by the neighbours smoking on the back stairs of the Barbie Dream House. They had figured I was away and were concerned about the package sticking out of the mailbox getting wet, should it rain.

I sensed this had been discussed, if not on the level of NAFTA negotiations, then certainly with a degree of consideration as when to remove the package; before it rains, wait for it to rain, what if none of them were there to take it inside if there was unexpected rain, or if it just rains? They assured me they would've taken it inside. I cracked a smile and said, they're waterproof gloves. 

They asked me if we get kids on Halloween. No, I gestured, but if you put out an indicator...

They smiled, a jack-o-lantern. I stood amused at how that word deserted me to the extent it didn't exist in my vocabulary, not even in the back vaults. 

We had a laugh. They offered me bourbon. I looked at my 20 year-old green suitcase, the dividing line between youth and adulthood, I have scotch. 

Austin? Did I catch any (music) shows, a normal question on any given day, but anyone attending #AFF knows how absurd a notion that is. 

For the first time I admitted it was a big deal being a Finalist. If the Nicholls are the Oscars for wanna be screenwriters, then AFF is the Golden Globes; much more fun. 

They asked me to wear my Finalist badge. I declined, briefly. 

What the hell. One last time. And I walked the ten yards to the chicken coop, the sun long set and ordered pizza. 

#AFF2017