The couple had to wait for their next instruction. It was one of those situations, where waiting is followed by anxiety followed by more waiting. A man brought them a box. Inside the cardboard box was a simple wooden box with a carving on the lid. Two hinged doors opened in the middle to reveal emptiness. The couple looked around, and looked at the man. "Where’s the information?"
He shrugged. "That is the information."
"That’s it?" the man was incredulous. "Well, where did it come from?"
"Costa Rica, Sir."
"So now we wait," the woman concluded, looking out to sea.
The water was rising up to our knees. The old crates we were standing on were providing less and less stability, and the ground was losing solidity. We continued to stuff the holes in the ceiling, but the water kept leaking through.
"If only she would stop," you said. But we both knew she wouldn’t stop.
By the time the water was yellowed and smelled like vinegar, it was also freezing.
"If it freezes around our legs..." you said. But we both knew what was coming. At the same time, we stopped stuffing the holes, our hands numb long ago.
The corn dog tree is where corn dogs come from. They grow, hanging down limp on their stalks. When picked, the stalks harden, forming the stick that you hold when you eat one. Sometimes the people who grow them set the stalks, to ensure that they set straight, and not all curvy like, if left natural. No one likes a corn dog with a curvy stick.
As a child, on a field trip, I looked at cattails by a pond, and ate a corn dog. Later, I threw up in front of my class. I’ve never eaten another corn dog.
The guy with Down Syndrome, who I called Corky, chose to help clean up the huge mess. He grabbed large piles of items and threw them in the bags. Luckily he came to me to show me one handful so I could yell at him, pull a CD-ROM out, and tell him to ask first before disposing.
“Who do I ask?” he asked.
“Someone with authority.”
“Me!” I clarified.
Then I had to give an old pair of my jeans to a girl with bare legs, so she could leave the bowling alley. Unfortunately they were half wet.
The dog, a metallic greyhound, is nursing metallic puppies. They squeak and clank like rusty car doors opening and closing. Each time they suckle, the sound is shrill and unpleasant. The oil drips out, the puppies gurgle and moan, steam shoots out from the corners of their mouths. The mother lays quiet, sometimes the joints in her legs creak and bend, and the puppies scrape against each other, to vie for better position.
When a woman offers me a giant, roadside Tyrannosaurus rex, sculpted entirely out of driftwood, I have to say “No”, because how would I get it home?