The JB is funny about contagious illnesses. Half of his brain is aware they're caused by germs that can be spread from person to person and that, regardless of the type of germ, doctors will try to cure you by writing a prescription.
But the other half of his brain runs on a mixture of Mexican superstition, voodoo and sweet agave nectar. On this side of his mind, people can -- and often do -- cause illness or give you other types of bad luck by making you the target of their "ojo", or evil eye. For this the cure is a ritual involving prayers, a cup of water and a chicken egg. I'm not kidding. Wikipedia says:
"Mexican folk concepts of disease are based in part on the notion that people can be victimized by the careless or malicious behavior of others."All I know is that my huevos are sleeping on the couch. Is that citation enough?
This is how I ended up in the living room yesterday morning around 5:30 when I was awakened by a noise outside. Our condo is relatively secure, with controlled access to the lobby, hallways and car port. Once inside this common area, the only way an intruder could enter our home is by breaking in through the door from the hallway or by climbing onto our balcony and breaking in through the one of the two sliding glass doors into either the master bedroom or the living room.
Although we live on the first floor, our balcony is elevated about sixteen feet above the tree-lined courtyard. Okay, the real-estate listing called it a "tree-lined courtyard". It's a parking lot. Theoretically, a burglar, rapist or evil clown could jump the property fence or, if he's really lazy, follow a car in though the gate, then climb onto our balcony and break into our home. The climb to our balcony would probably require some sort of ladder or grappling hook. That is, unless there were a large vehicle, say a truck or SUV, parked directly underneath. Which there usually always is.
Now that I've detailed on the Internet how rapists can break into my bedroom, allow me to continue my story.
He stood leaning forward with both hands on the balcony rail, pissing into the plants with quite a bit of overshoot falling into the darkness below. There may or may not have been cars parked down there, I desperately want to believe there weren't. I shudder imagining how that association tribunal would go down.
If I didn't know JB any better, my first reaction would be to slap some sense into him. But after dealing with his sleepwalking for fourteen years now, I can confidently pass along this advice, should you ever find yourself in a similar situation: It's very important that you do not attempt to wake the sleepwalker. Unless you're into water sports, wait until the urine stream comes to a complete stop, then commence slapping.
And when the stream did finally stop, JB didn't go back through the door into the bedroom, which he left wide open. He turned toward the living room door and began walking. Powerless to do anything to stop him, I watched him walk right into the glass with a thunk! That distinctive kind of bone-on-glass thunk that says, "Grab the Bible and a baggie and meet me at the dumpster, we're having a birdie funeral as soon as the twitching stops."
Being the compassionate guy I am, of course I burst out laughing as I watched him bounce backward two steps before shaking it off and trying again. Thunk! Before he could muster a third attempt, I unlocked the door and let him in.
"What on earth are you doing out there?", I asked.
"Using the restroom," he replied absently, yet with full certainty of my being an idiot for asking such a stupid question.
Instead I showed him the schlong print on the sliding glass door, complete with dribble.
Stay tuned for next week's episode when Pac asks a Home Depot associate in which aisle he might find their Mexican-strength chicken wire.