It was a late-summer afternoon outside the elementary school. A boy played alone on the monkey bars.

He hung from the steel with one arm, then swung the other up to catch the next bar. Arm under arm in perfect rhythm, effortlessly reaching the other side. A perfect dismount.

Another boy played in the sand. He scooped sand into a mound and dug a hole. He quietly watched as the first boy effortlessly crossed the bars again and again.

Bored and curious, he walked over.

“Do you mind if I try?”

“You’ll have to wait,” the boy said. “I need to get this right.”

“It looks like you’re doing it perfectly. You’ve gone back and forth at least ten times without slipping.”

“The trick is to get your hands and your body into precise alignment. Then it takes no effort at all. I’m still practicing. Here, watch.”

The boy swung across the bars with precision, reached the end, and turned back without pausing.

“Okay,” he said, dropping down. “That’s how you do it. You can try now.”

The other boy gripped the bars and pulled himself forward, but halfway across his arms gave out and he dropped into the dirt.

“Let me try again.”

“No. It’s my turn now.”

“But you already went ten times.”

“You fell off. You have to make it to go again.”

The boy stepped back, a little disgruntled, and watched him glide across the bars another ten times, flawless as ever.

When he jumped down, he shook his head.

“Not even close to right!”

“It looked good to me.”

“Go ahead.”

The boy jumped up again. This time he made it a little farther before falling.

“Can you spot me?”

“I can’t. That’s not how it’s played.”

“Okay… I’ll go again.”

“Nope. My turn. You fell off.”

Again, the boy crossed the bars. Back and forth. Back and forth. Ten more times.

“NOT EVEN CLOSE!” he shouted.

The other boy stared at him.

“What are you talking about? You made it every time. You’re really good at it.”

The boy shook his head.

“Okay. My turn.”

“No,” he said. “I have to get this right.”

Another flawless traverse.

“Now. Watch this,” he added. “You let the momentum of your legs carry you forward.”

“I think I got it.”

The boy jumped up again. This time he moved with rhythm, bar to bar, clean and controlled until he reached the other side.

He hung there for a moment, surprised.

“I made it.”

“Not bad,” the boy said. “But it’s my turn now.”

“But I made it.”

“You only made it halfway. You have to make it back before you can go again.”

The boy dropped down.

The other boy went again.

Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Twenty times.

Effortless.

“NO GOOD!”

The boy looked up at him.

“That was amazing. You went back and forth twenty times.”

The boy shook his head.

“That wasn’t perfect.”

The boy responded.

“Maybe perfection doesn’t exist.”

Morgan:

Hey Posty.

Posty:

Yo, what’s up Morgan.

Morgan:

Nice car.

Posty:

Yo, thanks bro. What kind of truck is that?

Morgan:

Old Chevy. Just picked it up on Craigslist.

Posty:

Dope. How are things with you?

Morgan:

Little crazy. This world is insane. Need to find me a cute girl.

Posty:

Yeah, me too. Feeling a little Whitney.

Morgan:

Hold on a sec. I gotta get all this sand out of my boots.

Posty:

What did you get up to last night?

Morgan:

Met this girl at the bar. We drank whiskey and ended up on the beach.

What about you?

Posty:

House party. Allen Iverson and Tony Romo showed up in a G-Wagon full of soccer moms. It got wild.

Morgan:

Cool, How much did you pay for that Bentley?

Posty:

Three hundred thousand out the door.

Do you like my grill?

(wide grin showing diamond-studded gold teeth)

Morgan:

I paid two thousand for this Silverado.

It came with a grill. Might go tailgating.

Posty:

Bentley’s got heated seats.

Morgan:

Chevy’s got a bench seat.

Maybe we should write a song.

A glass bowl filled with water sat atop the kitchen counter. Across the aisle, a gas flame flickered beneath a steel pot.

“It’s warming up in here,” said the lobster.

The goldfish swam an effortless lap, his eyes fixed on the pot.

“Hey. Is there anyone there?”

The goldfish stopped and glared indignantly.

“Oh, hi. I have so much to do.” He swam on.

“This water is warming up, but it feels kind of nice… like, what?” the lobster asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m writing a book, filing a lawsuit, starting a podcast, and painting a masterpiece.” Another lap.

“My shell is starting to change color.”

“The book could be about how to get things done.”

“It’s getting really warm in here.”

“Pastels are the better choice. Oils are too much work.” The goldfish blew a trail of bubbles and kept swimming.

“Whoa, the water is getting a little uncomfortable. Can you help me?”

“Maybe we can start a podcast. What do you think?”

“Ouch! It’s heating up.”

“This bowl is too small, I’m going to sue.”

“It’s hot in here!”

The goldfish kept swimming.

“I THINK I AM COOKING!”

“Yes, that’s a great idea. A cookbook.

I’m sorry.

Too busy. Can’t talk.”

It was the perfect solution. For I could ride on its back and pass the time by writing in my journal while its large and strong tail propelled us safely to the other side.

I thoroughly inspected several and carefully chose one with a wide back, smooth scales and only a few dull teeth

But as fall turned to winter, the alligator grew razor sharp teeth and its scales sharpened to a point. Everyday another tooth while the pointed scales poked through my jeans and into my thighs.

I began to worry that I might fall off, and that if I did, he might eat me.

With no appealing or safe alternatives, I decided the only thing I could do about the situation was keep writing, ignore the pain and forget about the danger.

On the road, Santa Cruz

Made it across the Alligator pond?

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