He found himself basking in one of the many balmy evenings that he'd known since birth.
He stopped and inhaled a lungful of Yankee air, grateful that the Goldenrod had yet to bloom. Maybe it was the atmosphere -- sparse and foreboding. Maybe it was the whisperings of flavor in the air, delivered by a wind weighted with early summer pollen and the soft, acrid taste of construction tar. Maybe it was his blood alcohol level, which had in the past hour had surpassed his high school SAT scores. The impetus disregarded, our intoxicated Pennsylvania hero might have gazed towards the northeast American skies while allowing his body to be cocooned by the encompassing glamour of the early harvests. He may have had other plans on that fateful night, but they weren't realized once he felt the need -- the need for mead.
For Shannon Hunter, it was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was a time of mirth, of adventure, of indecision. It was that time he got so hammered that he ended up naked in the shit tank of a porta-potty.
Once our hero relinquished his hold on sobriety, he got nekked and crawled into the holding tank of a big green shitter. The choice of atmosphere may have jarred his common sense back into action, though, because once in the tank, he called 911 from his cell phone.
Local firefighters and rescue workers arrived on the scene shortly after his call and cut him from his plastic Xanadu, at which point he was charged with public drunkenness and creating a public health violation. I can only wonder if the public health violation was Obscene Placement of a Cellular Object.
(By the way, I'm a native Pennsylvanian, and I put my cell phone in my purse.)
