No Business Being Up
I had a small television on my bedside stand. In Spain as a fourteen-year old in the mid-nineties, you soon learned that television censors were far more lenient than those in the New World. I received the signal from a channel that exclusively transmitted the ongoing undressing of a woman in a shabbily decorated room. It was usually mature women that gave this peep-show, there was never any sex (I guess I needed cable for that, which didn’t extend to my dormitory). No music played as this took place, merely rustling fabric and the eventual soft moan.
Unable to sleep, probably slightly excited by my nightly entertainment, one night I emerged to the balcony to catch a breath. It was a residential neighborhood where one breathed a homely European air; gardens and townhouses abounded and streets were named after Counts. The timid buzzing of the streetlamps in summer was broken when a BMW rolled down the street and its driver failed to open the metallic garage door as it attempted what resulted in a bombastic non-entry to the house in front. BAM!
As if that wasn’t funny enough as far as 4:00am occurrences go, I held my laughter and witnessed the exchange between the male driver and his female companion, which made it abundantly clear that he was dropping off sweety-buns at her place.
I could thank my teen hormones and locally televised soft-core then for a night of very satisfying sleep deprivation. Too bad I’m not in Spain now…I might have to grab a siesta though.
