A Brief Interlude, without Pineapples
I couldn't have dreamed what it was going to be like.
I had imagined, in my wildest fantasies, that it would be pretty special, but nothing, not anything like it was.
Okay, wait. Let's dial that back a little.
But I did happen to find myself, just an hour after coming in from outside, wishing I had the leaf blower I'd just been terrorizing the leaves outside with to turn on the dust and dirt and grime inside the basement.
It had gained such traction in my mind that I couldn't help but think of it as the solution to nearly any problem I might face. Including, but not limited to: cleaning out the basement, putting away the kids' toys, getting dinner on (in this case, though, I don't think I'd be using it at full power, or to cook the thing, but I picture pushing the pan it's in down the counter to the oven, where I'd have to pick it up and put it in the oven).
Looking like the 7th Ghostbuster, I tripped and trod amongst the rocks and shrubs, hidden by the blanket of leaves, light whir ringing in my ears. Where the nozzle touched down the leaves leapt like some alive thing, roaring away, frightened, or touched by the hand of God... if the hand of God were very, very cold, and without warning He slapped that cold hand on your bare back.
Okay, so it took me about as long to clear that substantial patch of the back property as it would have with a rake, with marginally less sweat, but ah, the sweet power. If only my fingers still didn't stink of gasoline now.
disclaimer:
We are still (I swear) working on the old book in progress, the next episode will be appearing next week, or so, with any luck.
By now, you better have marked November 11th on your calendar. At 2 p.m. In Arlington, Massachusetts, come on down to the Regent Theater for a little more Further Fenway Fiction action. Circle it with the red pen. And then star it with the blue. And tape this particular calendar page to your door, so you see it each morning, as you leave for work.
You will thrill to the exploits of Doctor Belly and Mister Itcher. I promise (* warning, actual promise not valid, void in Natick).
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