All Along The Fey

Some men and trucks built a house next to my house. Originally it was a swamp. Not the ideal construction site, I thought, but I guess I’m not on the cutting edge of domicile construction technology. The night they completed their project, I sneaked into it. It was vacant; the new owners had yet to arrive to the swamp. There was a water stain on the floor of the foyer I thought was peculiar for two reasons. Reason A: The house was just built, which would lead one to believe this sort of thing is unusual, and Reason B: The stain looked like Jerry Garcia.

Since no heat or electricity was activated, the stain could have been Santa. It’s hard to be certain.

I’m not privy to the knowledge of most things, but there are portions of life of which I am quite aware. I know, for instance, that porcupines float and people generally do not like if you stare. I also know that if something is assumed never to be possible, it’s quite likely that it will happen sooner than later. While I was trespassing in the house on the fey, it rained snowglobes.

There’s a certain humor to a downpour of self-contained, prepackaged precipitation, but it was lost on me. Terminal velocity has this effect.

They hit the surrounding swamp like bullets into cheese. Archaeologists of the future will be perplexed. The snowglobes collided with the roof of the house with such ferocity that I thought I could almost hear the polar bears, snowmen, and all the other residents of the ever-winter domes screaming in bewildered agony. It took several minutes to realize that the screaming was just me. Trauma caused by the seemingly impossible tends to separate the brain from the rest of the body.

The storm lasted for approximately three minutes. In the silence following, I stared at what I felt was Jerry Garcia. I imagined he told me these things just don’t happen in San Francisco. But how could he know? He’s dead. If it happens here, it happens anywhere.

I step outside. The moonlight spreads my shadow like margarine over what seemed like the remnants of a million bar mitzvahs. The sky is empty, which tells me nothing. Trees were stripped of extraneous branches and the ground appeared as though the earth was a giant brown golf ball.

There’s no use in attempting to apply logic to this situation, I thought. Using logic, I would be forced to arrive at the conclusion that I was completely bananas. And if I were bananas, my logical reasoning skills would be anywhere from mortally flawed, to nonexistent, which would render the assumption that I were bananas moot. So I went home and told myself never to trespass.