I was a little bit slower at work than usual today. I was employed in my usual foot dragging and feigned incomprehension, but I was yawning while I was doing it. Cubby, the mail jerk, shouted out over the cubicles, "Hey, WK! Ya seem out of sorts! Whatsa matta? Hungover?"
No, Cubby, I wasn't suffering from a katzenjammer even though I had been enjoying adult beverages only a few hours earlier. I attended a party on Taft Street last night and, since it was within walking distance of chez King, I was able to stay until the festivities petered out to nothing since I didn't have to rely on the MBTA to get home.
No one was shot, no one's finger or ear was bitten off, there weren't any fisticuffs. In fact, there weren't any arguments and I didn't hear one cross word or cuss word until I beelined my way homeways along Dot Ave where a couple of cabbies were arguing in front of the Ryan Playground. It was good, clean fun, the way people entertain themselves in Dorchester. Lacking many nightclubs or any movie theaters, Dorchesterites tend to make their own fun wherever they congregate. Unlike many New Englanders, the people of Dorchester have a reputation for being warm, even on the last day of March, the butt end of winter.
While I was sluggish this morning, it wasn't because of the ample social lubricants that were served. You know, when you're dancing at a Dorchester party you burn all the alcohol out of your system even if you're just running on fumes the next day.
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