Walking back from bars has its upside. Positively stammering back to Boston after a few and a blunt beside the Charles qualifies a good night. One could only want to play their social repetoir on such an occasion. The socialites by the Charles run few and far between, but good-natured questing home can almost always attract someone... or something.
Life by the river can accomodate a roving drunk smoker, looking for those alike. However, those already living near the river live far more delicately than the visitors. Noise came busteling down the skinny, dirt path. Cars streamed by the path, but the river swallowed their existence. The path cut treeline from riverbed. What would one find down this little path? A person? A duck? Or so one would think.
One last hearty justle of the drunken leg alarmed whatever had taken guard along the riverbed. It slipped into the river with a splash like a poolside patron cannonballing. A splash of startling suprise from the guardian. It pulsed back into the water and left the hammered socialite with nothing more than a "snub". So much for sharing a buzz; the guardian would rather jump (back?) into the river than to share its meeting place with the traveller.