Here I go again, warning everyone of events that may offend, or may even humor. I'm going to start with another bizarre tale that takes place right here in the "country" of Florida.
Daylight Savings has arrived, yet another year where we complain about our schedules feeling fucked up, and our lives being filled with more daylight, but are we? Probably in some mathematic equation, yes, but down here, they don't need no stinkin' time change.
I was giving my last donation of plasma, I made my financial goal with the side hustle and I have called it quits until this fall. As I lay there, listening to the machine drawing my blood and separating my red blood cells from the plasma, I overheard two donors. They were whistling words through missing teeth and they sounded like two old hounds licking their nuts over-dramatically between each word as their tongues smacked back excess spit. Before I continue, remember, this is a place you don't want to pick up Hitchhikers, and they have odd parties on Groundhog Day (discussed in prior blog posts).
The man with a red hat, "I wish they'd just fuckin' get rid of this daylight stuff. But I do love the celebration."
The man with a bandanna covering his bald head, wearing a grease stained patriotic flag shirt, "I know, all these people taking our freedom. I'm just glad we have who we have as the Pres'dent. You going to the party?"
Red hat, "I'm going, but I got to mail out my presents first."
"I didn't buy any this year, I miss the grandchillin' but they're gettin' expensive." Bandana wiggled his body, eyes wide and sucking back a sliver of drool, making his case.
"I understan'," Red Hat nodded, puckered his lips over his toothless mouth, and then went back to his phone.
They faded into silence mesmerized by loud displays of videos on their devices exclaiming that there were lizard people eating babies, and an evil cabal still worked in our government despite the current administration that they voted in. The last I heard from one of their devices was that Ivermectin cured cancer. I turned up the Metallica album in my ears, no longer interested. I had never in my life heard of a celebration for Daylight Savings time.
On Friday, the crazies' conversation at the plasma center was confirmed. I walked into the post office and the line was long, extended outside the automatic doors. Each old white person clinging to boxes and parcels as if their lives depended on them. Every one of them staring angrily at the length of line they were experiencing as if they were each more important than the next person. They were silently stewing. On some of the parcels the patrons held there was a drawing of a clock, complete with an exaggerated hour hand and minute hand. Some boxes were adorned with bright red ribbon, some stamped with stickers of bears, smiley faces, thumbs up, or smiling clowns. This was an odd adulation that people here are a couple cans short of six packs.
I took a nap Saturday afternoon to prepare for whatever was going to happen. At ten p.m., I stumbled out of bed for what I anticipated, the festivities. I assumed the magic would happen at midnight. Some nearby kids from a trailer were snapping those poppy thingies on the street before I heard the first crackle of fireworks. The crackle turned into a boom, and more whistles followed by loud explosions. Cocoa even felt the rumble of M-80's being lit off in the garbage burning barrels housed in every backyard. He hid on his bed, beneath his comfortable dog blanket dreaming of the past where he had an extra hour to sleep.
I stepped out of the Mothership to witness another bizarre event. The sky was alight with more than fireworks as everyone's sensor light/cameras on the front of their homes illuminated the street. I heard a drumroll of a marching band. The drum major was smiling and each band member wore blue buffalo hats as if they were a fucking part of the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes on the Flintstones. Neighbors stood along the streets holding large wall clocks and as the band marched by, playing Wagon Wheel, each clock holder turned the hour hand ahead one hour.
I wasn't too dismayed, but surprised at this odd breed of humans. So if you're ever wondering how some of the locals celebrate Daylight Savings time, join the shenanigans next year, it's never too late. A positive note: Even though I've despised the song Wagon Wheel since working at the Prickly Pear in Arizona, I found myself two stepping as the band passed. Suffice it to say after all of the hubbabalo, I stuck to tradition and changed our clocks back at 2 a.m. like the old routine I've followed for many years.
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Tim Eagle
Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.com
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