Dawn of the Woodpecker

Swaying and shuffling to the bathroom, once again, I hoped this time that I’d summon the wherewithal to finally start my Saturday. But my visit was bookended by my usual return to bed. The previous night’s tequila and IPA’s had been reincarnated as leftover remnants of vomit that spackled the roof of my mouth. Voice deepened by hangover— also made hoarse from shouting over the bands, in the belly of the Roxian, let out a groan as I shifted in the cozy-yet-itchy cradle of the basement couch, trying my best to avoid the irritating sunlight… face shoved into the upholstery, smothered by pillows. Nose dizzied by the familiar scents of home dulled and havocked by cigarette smoke from Rudy’s High Dive, where the bartender remembered I wanted to be a writer, as a kid, but all the THC made it hard for me to remember what I’d just said to him. Just then, I was disturbed by incessant tapping—frequent and forceful, like my offbeat attempts at matching the rhythm of Donna the Buffalo on the venue’s upper floor’s safety railing. Seeing how ignoring it proved fruitless, I dragged my body upstairs to find my dad. He too was slumped on a sofa safely transported to & from McKees Rocks on his first ever Uber ride. While I showered, Timmy Z snooped around, eventually discovering the culprit of the commotion: a trapped woodpecker. We armed ourselves with brooms swatted, batted, and shooed, dodging our feathery friend’s maneuvers near our heads as it flew out the door before company arrived.