A bottle of Cabernet and a few rice wine moonshines preceded Space’s invitation to the rooftop. I was eager to go for two reasons:
1) I love rooftops because you’re generally not supposed to go there. They’re either sloped and dangerous, full of mechanical equipment, or just plain blocked off by the safety police. Damn all the personal injury lawyers who have bleached the world of most of its fun! Rooftops = Danger…and I like danger
2) The invitation did not include the phrase “Hey Jeff. My wife is sleeping, do you want to go up to the roof?”
It was dark and the clouds were out so you only half make out the mountain range behind us, same thing for the coast in front of us. “Stand up here for a better look” he said. So with my ragged house slippers I stepped up on the ledge. Space told me to turn to get a better look at the mountains which, as I already mentioned, were covered by clouds so you couldn’t see a fucking thing. It was then, with my body turned to the steep unprotected drop down that I became paralysed with fear. I was four floors up standing on a ledge in broken house slippers, half drunk, completely exhausted with my back turned to the danger. One stiff breeze and I was toast. Clearly this was not the best decision I had ever made. Worse still, my safety glasses were in my knapsack. Shit!
Space was too busy blabbing about the coastal mountain range or some shit like that to notice that my body was a stiff as iron and that my toes were practically digging into the stone ledge. When he finally finished his idiotic ramblings we got down from the roof and headed for bed. The roof had not beaten me; I got right back up there the next day and even climbed down the slope to the next ledge to get a better angle for some photos. I still like heights, just not while drunk and in the dark.
Just before going to bed, Space offered me an early apology. “I’m sorry about the chicken.”
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| Back on top, facing the right way |
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