Where The F@#$% are my Socks? A Riveting Story About Searching

Sockssss

True Story…

(as true as a story based on reality can be)

Some friends of mine and I went to the art museum one night – at about midnight – to lay on the museum’s perfectly manicured grass and have a smoke or two, drink a few, and have a nice chat under the full moon.  It was kind of an after-party from a show we had all been at earlier in the evening.

One of the friends was a trumpet player named Wesley. Wes and I were with a couple of other friends named Vera (a singer) and Lenora (an artists and translator) and James (another artist and videographer).

We  looked at the moon, talked trash, laughed a lot, took our shoes off and let the grass caress our toes.  We drank, we smoked some more. Got deep. Laughed more. Did somersaults and cartwheels down a gentle slope and took goofy pictures of ourselves.

And then, all of us on our backs, stared at the midnight sky in silence.

Then we all hugged, said goodnight to each other and parted ways.

I’m not sure where everyone else went, but Wesley and I went back to his place as it was near the museum. He had a bit more booze at his house… so we spent much of the rest of the night drinking and making music…  then we burned our ideas onto a CD.

Then I passed out on his couch sharing it with all of his stuff.

Strewn about the couch was his laundry – including pants, boxer shorts, a towel, a couple of shirts and some brightly colored ties;  some musical instruments – mostly percussion type instruments like shakers, rattles and a tambourine; there were a couple of books (can’t remember the names of the books, but I think I liked one of the authors); and a couple of pillows.

I used some of his laundry as a blanket.

Then I woke up.

I opened my eyes and was blinded by the blaring sunlight – that wasn’t there when I passed out – flooding Wesley’s living room (which was also his dining room, study, studio and part of his kitchen).

I immediately got that oh shit, I’m late feeling and scrambled to pack up my stuff: a jacket, a helmet, my guy-purse, the keys to my motorcycle, my shoes and other tidbits.

Then I realized my socks were missing.

I looked around for them.  Under here. Over there. The socks were black, I told myself… or perhaps dark blue. I stood in the middle of the room and tried to recall where I had put them.

Then I woke Wes up to say goodbye.

Then I looked for my socks again. I looked under the couch, in his laundry still laying on the couch  – some of his laundry still with the imprint of my body on it. I looked in my shoes (again) and the bathroom (as I may have taken them off as the floor was a bit wet).

I found them not.

I spied a pair of socks on the floor next to the trumpet, but decided not to borrow them as I wasn’t sure if they were clean or not and didn’t want to do the smell test.

I gathered up my belongings and barefoot, carrying my shoes, walked down six flights of stairs (no elevator) to my scooter.

I got on my scooter, waved to the taichi people practicing in the park as I pulled out onto the street, went back to art museum and looked there for my socks.

I looked under the tree we had been sitting under, behind the bushes where I relieved myself of those whiskey apple cider things that I now wish I had not drunk. I looked up and down the hill we had done the cartwheels and somersaults on; the approximate area we had been on our backs looking at the stars…  still… no socks.

Barefoot, I walked back to my motorcycle, as the sun dared to glare brightly at me (I could not find my sunglasses either).

I put on my helmet and with bare feet, I headed slowly north on my motorcycle – back to my home in the big valley wondering if my socks were still resting at the art museum or hiding at Wesley’s place or sitting alone on a sidewalk somewhere  – waiting for my return…

…or perhaps – just maybe –  I did not wear socks out in the first place.

******************************************************************

You can Follow the Militant Hippi/Boston Paul on Facebook: 

https://www.facebook.com/BostonPaul
or
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MilitantHippi

You Might also like to read some other short stories by Boston Paul AKA The Militant Hippi:

  1. About a Great Grandfather and his Great Grandson:

    https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2016/01/26/my-great-grandfather-when-cultures-clash-ass-kicking-long-hair-and-hard-knocks/

    2.  This is my weapon and this is my Gun, based on real life events, a young man finds himself in Central America:

https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2016/01/12/this-is-my-weapon-and-this-is-my-gun/

3. Hate waiting in line?  This is for you:

https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2011/02/11/the-express-lane-10-items-or-less/

4. The Would Be Patriot:

https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2010/10/05/a-good-young-man-or-lockes-socks-the-would-be-patriot/

5. A bit of Horror and suspense… never blow this guy’s candle out!

https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2010/07/24/short-story-the-flame-that-softly-danced/

6. Getting Stoned at The Fair

https://bostonpaul.wordpress.com/2010/01/17/short-story-stoned-at-the-fair/

 

 

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Published in: on January 31, 2016 at 12:49 AM  Comments (2)  
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2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Damn dirty hippies! Hehehe

    This kind of thing is the price you pay for living in a hippie refuge and “discussing your ideas” until the wee hours of the morning with your fellow hippie musicians.

    • Discussing ideas is worth the price of socks I’d say!

      Einstein thought they were over-rated too.

      😉


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