Okay, so it was really 10 pm. But midnight sounds so much more poetic.
So I met my Uncle Bob and his boss, Greg, for a lovely dinner at the Oceanaire Seafood Room. I put on some decent clothes (which I did not iron, but no one seemed to mind) and took the bus as usual. After an evening of chatter about sights of the Pacific Northwest, the troublesome teenage years, birth order, addiction, poverty, political corruption, and a comparison of the virtues of Seattle versus the vices of DC, I headed home.
I walked 5 blocks uphill, in heels. With the click-clack of each step a passerby yelled "cha cha cha" in a sing-song voice. I passed a girl who limped, a man who rushed her, and three men dangling from a crossbar like noisy trapeze artists, drilling holes into the concrete overhead.
I stood and waited for the 16. My vision has become blurry at night, so I stood close to the curb to read the bus numbers as they passed. I looked up to watch the construction workers and the misting rain.
And then I was hit. It was a quick, acute thump on the arm. I thought perhaps a car had swerved and run into me. But then I looked down and saw white particles clinging to my pants and felt a thick, sticky substance on my arm.
I got egged! At the bus stop in Seattle, city of virtuous people who are polite to the point that it pains them.
No one laughed. No one screamed. There was no noise. Just egg running slowly down my arm, stomach and legs.
Finally the bus came. I got on and asked the bus driver for a paper towel. He hesitated until I explained that I had been egged. To that he said, "Well - that wasn't very nice!" I smiled and dabbed at the raw egg and tried to avoid thoughts of salmonella. And then I laughed and called Rachel.
She said she'd get the camera ready. I giggled the whole way home at the surprising absurdity of it all.
Cha Cha Cha.