| Written by JR Brow,
on 07-24-2008
|
Views : 655  |
 It's early Thursday morning, July 3rd and I am wide awake. It's day three here in Cuba. I'm staying in what are known as Visitors Quarters, or VQ. I am the only one up so far, I'm pretty sure. I know my co-resident is crashed on the couch downstairs because I can hear him snore through two walls. The other two comics are probably still asleep, too. Yes, I'm sure they are all tucked in after staying up late with members of the Atlanta rock band, "State Of Man." The band is also on tour with us here in Guantanamo Bay, and judging from the post-show party we had at their condo last night, I'd bet they're still sleeping too. I partied right along with everyone, so why am I up so early?
I was on the roof for most of the morning. It was still early, but
the temperature was quickly climbing to an unbearable temperature. I
lost my grip on a piece of rain gutter. To avoid losing a finger, I
threw the sharp edged metal away from me and toward the ground. I
plugged my ears in anticipation, but the sound it made when it hit the
driveway below caused me to jerk and I started to lose my balance. The
ladder was nowhere in sight. Sliding toward the edge of the second
story roof, I couldn't find anything to break my inevitable twenty-foot
free fall. I slid further to the edge, trying to grab the lip as a last
ditch effort, but tumbled toward the pavement, landing on my back.
"Bam!"
I popped upright in my bed, my heart pounding. "Whew!
That was as real as it gets!" Good thing I was only dreaming. "But why
would I dream about roofing?" Just as I wondered this, the unmistakable
clang of a rain gutter striking a concrete patio resonated outside my
bedroom window. I hadn't even bothered to look because I knew this
particular sound very well. As a homeowner, I've had experience in rain
gutter installation. The constant "p-yong", "p-wang", and "p-wow"
noises I kept hearing this morning, somehow became the soundtrack to an
incredibly scary dream. As I sat up in my bed, rudely awakened from my
golden slumbers, I squinted at the alarm clock until it came into
focus. It was 8:30 in the morning! For some reason I affected a
Jamaican accent. "Me guess it's time dat me aff to gettup!" That's
Patois (pronounced Pa-twa) for, "I guess it's time for me to get up!"
In
one quick motion, I slid the curtains open to see a pair of legs on an
aluminum ladder. Coincidentally, the voice attached to those legs
yelled something in Patois to the man below. I heard him say, "Me no
can old dis piece pah me sef, mon!" I think he said, "I can't hold this
piece by myself, man!" I know that's what he said because I studied
Patois in college. OK, I didn't really study it, but somebody brought
over a bong, and my roommate had a boatload of Bob Marley reggae
albums.
Noise is my nemesis, and it always has been. And so is
sloppiness. I'm not a neat freak by any stretch of the imagination. I
am married, so I'm domesticated enough to respect another person's
space. My housemate during my stay in Cuba is my exact opposite. To put
it nicely, he is the non cleanest cohabitant that I've ever
encountered. As funny as he is on stage, and for as delightful as he is
around people, he has no regard for my space. It's day three and I am
getting tired of looking for an empty chair or a space to call my own.
He has taken over the entire downstairs, and today is the day I put an
end to it before he gets to the upstairs!
There are clothes on
the dining room table, a pair of jeans draped over the ironing board, a
balled up shirt in the hall by the stairs, and shoes around every
living room chair when I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I pour
myself a bowl of Cheerios, go to the fridge to grab the milk, but it's
almost empty! I think out loud, "Well, it was full last night, damn
it.!" Snores emanate from the living room. I clear off a place on the
edge of the coffee table for my bowl, set it down and turn the
television on loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to keep Scotty K in
dreamland. I say nothing as I quickly finish my half-bowl of cereal.
Scotty sleeps soundly with his back turned to the world.
I head
back upstairs to wash up. As I open the bathroom door it seems jammed.
I look behind it, and it is a wet towel. Hell, I should have known,
right? I look around the bathroom to find a clean towel, and the only
one left is a smaller face towel. It is at this precise moment that I
channel Steve Martin's character Neal Page in "Planes, Trains, and
Automobiles." I wonder if Scotty K secretly sells shower curtain rings,
because he certainly fits John Candy's role as Del Griffith.
Fortunately, this is where the similarities end. I have my own bed, and
so does Scotty (even if he currently commandeers the couch). I
seriously doubt that I would have accepted this gig, knowing that I'd
have to spoon with Scotty K, while he yells out, "Those aren't
pillows!" Yup, it's already shaping to be quite a day here in GTMO.
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