Friday, June 17, 2011

Bender II

What none of them could figure out was how he had gotten into the apartment. Even he was vague on the details, insisting that he had come in through a locked window a good eight feet above the ground. Still, the fact remained that sometime in the wee hours of the morning, he had appeared in the wrong bed, sending its rightful occupant shuffling through the hallway and out to the refuge of the couch.

His phone had vanished at some point in the evening's revelry, the only clue to its whereabouts a series of charges for calls made to Paraguay near dawn on a Sunday. The Polaroids, however, were intact, a linear series of snapshots that gave structure and meaning to the blurred thread of a memory that formed the foundation of his tale of mirth and woe: himself, the quixotic hero adventuring on the high seas of Wicker Park, consorting with the locals and ultimately triumphing over a misdirected cabby and a slumbering, fastened garden apartment.

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