Parker Dorsey woke up to the sound of a car alarm going off in his driveway. Parker did not own a car with an alarm in it, nor did he own a driveway, so the situation muddled him greatly.
He stepped out of his bathroom, having passed out next to the toilet several hours earlier due to a tragic love of Cabana Boy Rum and Wild Berry Airborne. Parker had a cold... or a hangover… or maybe he just liked the bubbles. What ever. He was a grown man, and he had needs that could only be addressed by drinking coconut flavored rum that had a Tom of Finland-ish pool boy on the bottle until he had to vomit in the magazine rack next to the toilet bowl. He justified chundering on the issues of Redbook and OK! That had been there since he moved in two years ago by claiming that puking in the toilet only made him puke more.
Ah, but back to the car alarm in Parker’s nonexistent driveway. Stepping out of the bathroom of his first floor apartment, Parker discovered that a lime green PT Cruiser had crashed into his kitchen. It was empty, save for someone’s discarded clothes and a clearly un-ironic dashboard Jesus.
“Mmm,” grunted the lanky, twenty five year old hipster with the ironic mustache. Empty, crashed car, discarded clothes. This was clearly the work of the elderly that he so despised. And now, there was a naked elderly Christian running amuck on Munjoy Hill who must be destroyed.
The alarm was still blaring. He’d deal with the nude codger that had wrecked his little slice of heaven after breakfast, but first he had to find some way to shut that wailing banshee up. Why did the PT Cruiser even have a car alarm anyway? No self-respecting car thief would want to drive one of those geriatric fail boats. After flinging an empty bottle of Cabana Boy, a meat tenderizer and the entire contents of a bottle of hand soap at the accursed vehicle, he gave it two squirts from the sinks sprayer attachment, and the alarm shorted out.
After a moment, he regretted his decision. Having a car alarm constantly blaring from a shitty geezer mobile was kind of ironic or something. At the very least, it was a conversation piece for when he’d invite the girls from MECA who came into his shop back to his house.
Parker ran Peter Pan Complex Records, a specialty thrift shop that did not actually sell records. He mostly sold shoes he found at garage sales. And by mostly, I mean he sold a pair of vintage white and neon green Rebok Pumps to one of his employees. His parents in Connecticut truly understood that the shop was a labor of love and paid his bills. He was actually scheduled to open the shop at eleven today, but like most days, he hadn’t planned on getting there until at least two, and now that there was a naked old man or woman skulking about the hill, he didn’t really see the point of working at all.
Such was life for Parker Dorsey.
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