Signs. They're everywhere when you notice them. Like William Shatner in that Twilight Zone episode, sometimes you find they are staring back at you when you look through the window. Other times they are a little further out on the wing, so to speak.
Signs. Sometimes they are as noticeable as the cows in the field behind my neighbor's house. Sometimes it's the Coyote standing at the end of my driveway when I wheel the dumpster out on Monday morning. I tip my hat and say "Breakfast is served." Sometimes its the op-ed piece in the newspaper that tells me that I live in a really, really RED state. But the obvious ones aren't the signs that bother me. Nope, it takes a little more than that to get me.
Signs. Sometimes they show up where you least expect them. We had a Steering Group meeting for the part of the business I work for here that just wrapped up. People come from all over the country (and a few other places too) to get a dose of this quadrennial pestilence. Tradition has it that on one evening of the three day shindig, we hold a dinner event downtown. Excellent food is served. Adult beverages are consumed. Good times are had by all. Life is good ... until I visit the men's room.
There are three urinals uncomfortably side-by-side. No one else in the place, so I take my half out of the middle. Two guys walk in and pull up on either side of me. They've been drinking - a lot. They not only break the unspoken rule and speak - across me - they continue their conversation - painfully oblivious to my presence.
Oh man, your wife is really drunk.
That damn vodka.
(a resigned beat)
You know the last time she did this,
(in a gently metered redneck ADAGIO)
she came home pregnant.
I washed my hands and left the city.