In his black suit and red tie, he is whistling as he walks up Fifth Avenue. The tune is nothing in particular, the tune is unfamiliar. Perhaps he is making it up as he goes along. Yes, it is improvised, as any good whistle should be. Nearby, construction is taking place inside of an old building. It is gutted like a fat fish. Soon there will be new walls and floors and things to be sold. It will not take long at all.
The suited man notices that they have barricaded 16th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. He can see orange and yellow air-filled things - contraptions, tents; he doesn’t know what to call them. They are for bouncing. He thinks of the Barthelme story that he was made to read in college. It was about a balloon. The balloon reminds him of the giant red wall workers have built around the construction site. The red is so very festive, he decides.
He can then see a volleyball net. He hates volleyball. It demands too much waiting and looking up into the sun. Besides: it hurts the hands.
Closest to him, he can see teams of whiffle-ballers. The ball they use is yellow. The teams are made up of students from Xavier High School. He wonders what they are celebrating. Perhaps the end of the school year, he imagines. It is spring.
He would like to play whiffle ball. He hasn’t played since he was young, but he believes he can still hit any pitch. The last time he played, he struck out three times. A hat-trick, they call it. On the last swing and miss, he demanded another chance. Upon receiving his extra chance, he swung and missed again. Four strikes. He accused the pitcher of cheating and charged the pitcher’s mound.
He wonders why he didn’t simply laugh. Instead of charging the mound, he could have laughed. Would he laugh now? Yes, definitely. He would laugh.
The tune he was whistling has transformed into one more familiar. He knows this song well.
The suited man notices that they have barricaded 16th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. He can see orange and yellow air-filled things - contraptions, tents; he doesn’t know what to call them. They are for bouncing. He thinks of the Barthelme story that he was made to read in college. It was about a balloon. The balloon reminds him of the giant red wall workers have built around the construction site. The red is so very festive, he decides.
He can then see a volleyball net. He hates volleyball. It demands too much waiting and looking up into the sun. Besides: it hurts the hands.
Closest to him, he can see teams of whiffle-ballers. The ball they use is yellow. The teams are made up of students from Xavier High School. He wonders what they are celebrating. Perhaps the end of the school year, he imagines. It is spring.
He would like to play whiffle ball. He hasn’t played since he was young, but he believes he can still hit any pitch. The last time he played, he struck out three times. A hat-trick, they call it. On the last swing and miss, he demanded another chance. Upon receiving his extra chance, he swung and missed again. Four strikes. He accused the pitcher of cheating and charged the pitcher’s mound.
He wonders why he didn’t simply laugh. Instead of charging the mound, he could have laughed. Would he laugh now? Yes, definitely. He would laugh.
The tune he was whistling has transformed into one more familiar. He knows this song well.
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