Someone had put some of the retirees (i)on a mission(i).  I didn't realize it until I was bringing some non-canned-food goods over to a special Salvation Army place.  By then I'd had time to think, kind of plug myself back into the picture.  (i)Places(i) often "take me back". 

     "Which one do you suspect it is?" Ruler Girl now in her twenty-somethings asked without turning around from the campfire.  "If I had to guess, which I do in this case, I'd say...." her eyes narrowed on the fire, listening hard to memorize every sound, "Yes?" 

     "Probably the guy in the fisherman's hat." 

     She gave a chin jut to another girlfriend.  The young woman came right over, breaking out of a conversation about (i)remember when(i).  "Yeah." 

     "Possible Dad siting." 

     "I'll find out."

     "The guy cannot." 

     "What gives?" 

     "Tryin' to tell me some guy can turn himself into a fly and buzz around and then back again into a guy." 

     "Whatever it is (i)it's a load of horseshit coming from him(i).". That guy lit a cigarette.

  "I did not fall out a tree." The woman had shaved her head in a show of solidarity a few months before and it was pre-pixie (i)hot(i).  An EP knelt by her sitting at a picnic table with benches attached.  She'd let an EMS person take her pulse.

     

     

     "Okay, so, now some people," the young woman sounded a bit nasally because the eyeglasses were pinching the ridge of her nose together but she kept explaining what kind of game this was.  The long and the short of it was American Sports.  And some of the grownups were purposefully (i)failing(i) at the tasks before them.

     The batter stepped up to the plate.  Large man, very tall with a tee-ball red plastic bat.  Sherry was the ballkeeper.  Every kind of ball, big and small, in the laundry basket on the mound next to her.  She had to keep wiping the tears and sweat from her eyes even though she had a cap on that read: (i)The best is yet to come(i).  This she did and wiped her hand on a burping towel, then she sized up the batter.  She put a finger to her chin to think, think like Winnie the pooh bear, tapped her temple, and didn't pick the softball.

     There'd been no airplanes for days so finally I tugged on the Macaroni Man's lumberjack "warmth"/winter coat.  He took his hands out of it's big pockets and turned gently and knelt on one knee.  "What is it princess?" 

     Mad face.  "I'm not the princess!" Shocked face. "Well, who are you?" 

     "I'm PANDA."

     The Bucket Woman blew a dog whistle and all of us kids went to her, even the wounded.

     

     "It's too many neckties Sherry." The decision had Sherry perfectly limp-facedly looking down at a little list she had doodled.  And the van bringing "the poor peoples' clothes" (i)to the Saint Vincent(i) was rap-knocked twice on the back bumper.  A wino on the curb looked under it, snatched a fifth and hoarsely said, "Clear.  Damn.  I wanted Dark Rum." 

     Feet with cuffed pants.  "Oil be sure'n let the Commisary know next time." 

     A woman, matron, bobbie stepped up behind.  "Move along now."

     "Look at the signature," became the standard not-command, but suggestion.

     "Just describe it," 

      The man with the biggest watch anyone had ever seen came to "the hut".  He actually was crawling on his belly, cammo-grease-faced, following extension cords that had been loosely covered in leaves.  His hand felt a soft shoe wet with dew before he realized it was someone's foot.  When he did, his hand acted surprised.  He looked up at the woman and mouthed, (i)sorry(i). The woman crossed her arms and picked her feet up further onto "the big hot rock".  Then she pointed to a little set of three trees.  Instead of going right over, the man belly-crawled backwards, rolled like he was on fire, and took out a pen.  Looking at a bundle of cable, he dug through until he found the one he lifted with the pen.

     "I cannot." I looked at the man with a very serious look to the very serious question.  "What kind of secretary are you?"  He perused the brochures on the counter at the Tapoco and plucked one.  Then he sat in an armchair and stared at me.

    "If you could've seen the looks on their faces," the short, balding man's mood forced itself to lift into the showman's remark.  "Really?" Squiggles asked.  "And guess what I found out?" 

    "Is this juicy or just...." Her hands debated closing the laptop.  "Well, I don't know," the man wiped a chair off with a tourism newspaper insert before sitting down like he got a bus seat.  "You tell me." 

     "What's this?" A pen's guts had been taken out of it to turn its shaft into a rollie tobacco holder.  The woman tapped the ashes into the little skillet and rested it.  She wiped both hands on the sides of her sweat pants and received the papers.  Stacked in a neat cross pattern.  "The top one is the report.  Under is...." She looked at the list in her little notepad.

      A couple of the little kids who were able to make it to Nature School, a class on (i)bugs(i), were quietly waiting to ask, (i)Where's Stephen(i)?  The oversized eyeglass wearing "professor" looked all over the table for magnifying glass and net.  Then it occurred to her, (i)my students are usually boisterous at this age(i).  When they caught her eye, they raised their hands.

(i)Later in the day....(i) 

     "What are y'all doing in yer underwears?" 

     The biggest boy crossed his hands over his so the other boys did too. 

     

    The VP's (Van People) had driven as far as had been pre-arranged or until (i)resources run out(i) "and?"

     "And in some cases," I purposefully held my hands up and gestured quoting, "The Lord (i)WILL(i) provide." Then I huffily sat down in one of the chairs.