Blacktop by Gary Buffaloe
Inspired by Colter Wall’s Sleeping on the BacktopI
I keep trying to change the channel, but everything is static.
"Someone forgot to pay the cable bill?" I shout back to no one in particular. In fact, there's no one here at all. The bar cleared out in a hurry. Now it's just empty and cold. I can see my breath, and there is water dripping from the ceiling. It's dripping on my nose and cheeks and in my eyes.
"Hey, buddy. Hey. Come on, time to get up, man," I hear someone saying in the distance. I wonder what’s going on. Am I dreaming or something?
"Hey, get up, man. I don't want to put you in cuffs," says the voice. I blink once, twice, and then realize I'm outside. There's newspaper draped over me like a blanket. I try to move it, but it peels and sticks to my damp clothes. There's a leak in the awning over the door and a light mist blowing in with the light falling rain, explaining how I got so wet. My back is up against a metal door, and my right arm is fast asleep on the blacktop beneath me.
"Big night last night, buddy?" says the police officer, kicking the sole of my boot. His Stetson is curled on the sides, with a gold star in the center, indicating he is a deputy. He keeps his right hand on his hip just above his holster, but I don’t think he’s nervous or scared of me. His mustache hides his expression, but his condescending tone tells me he is not impressed with my condition.
"Yeah, I don't know, man," I say. I feel like I was just in the bar, surrounded by people.
I don't know when I left or when I decided to sleep on the street. I guess my splitting headache could be the result of a hangover. Maybe it’s the weather, but I feel like my head is swirling with fog. Maybe I had been dreaming about the bar. The static on the T.V. could have been the rain on the awning. I wish I could find a way to separate my dreams from my memories.
"Sure. Whatever you say. You still gotta get movin’. You're trespassing, and the bar owner's gonna be here in a minute. I'm trying to keep you out of cuffs."
"Alright, yeah, okay," I say. I stand and try to pull the pieces of newspaper off of my clothes, "Hey, officer. You know what time it is?"
"Yeah, buddy. Ha! It's half past one."