A Walk On Down The Hall

It's midnight and I'm happy. I've had about three Blue Moons and my bladder feels as full as my heart. So I walk down the hall to the pisser and I see five things that make me smile. An autographed photo of Bob Barker on my left. A mosaic poster of Darth Vader on my right. I round the corner by the bathroom and see a hand-painted reproduction of the cover art from Pink Floyd's album "Pulse" shooting a knowing wink at me. Below it, my mother's elephant figurine collection. Across the hall, a framed document certifying my ordination as a minister of the Universal Life Church. I take a leak, walk back down the hall and into the storage room, where a 50 year old, chromed-out Crossley refrigerator inherited from Bethany's grandma Viola hums and chills one last Blue Moon with my name written all over it. I push past the fridge, open the basement door, and step out into the crisp February night. The spring peepers that chirped so boldly two nights ago have returned to their warm burrows underground. The cool breeze makes the blonde hair on my arms stand on end. I stare into the inky blackness of the starless night sky and I smile. I am smiling because at this moment in time, my boys are asleep and safe and sound in their beds and my beautiful wife is slumbering upstairs in a bed that she inexplicably has agreed to share with me for the rest of her life and I am THIS close to being done with writing my first book. And this house and this hallway and Bob Freaking Barker and Darth Vader and everything else I see around me is paid for including my "new" old cop car. And in a couple months I'll have a new daughter. I pour that last beer in a frosty mug and I flop down in my broken down recliner and I realize that I am happy.