Just before your Pekingese lifts his leg to the cuff of my brown whalebone corduroys—which the little mongrel has clearly mistaken for a small stump of tree, some wild sapling here in the park, sprouting smack-dab next to the base of an aluminum bench—I want to throw caution to your wind.
I want to tell you that I am from the future, a not-so-far-off future, but one well ahead of the immediate future where I am not so pissed about your puppy’s leak. A future that takes place in a county courtroom with me in it, off to the left; me as courtroom sketch artist composing a rather handsome side profile of you despite the poundage you accumulated since you stopped walking Hercules in the park.
I want to tell you that Hercules’ poor aim is what puts you there, his future and equally unfortunate misfiring landing on a less than sympathetic recipient mistaken as tree stump, where feet and Pekinese dogs are sent flying. Understandably, this gets you into a bit of a lather, sends you spiraling as you pummel Hercules’ perpetrator, marking your last cardio workout in weeks, hence your ballooning waistline, your unkempt nature.
I want to tell you about my exceedingly good penmanship that day, how charitable I felt making your being far superior to that of a now-pummeled, Pekingese-punting defendant, but my desire to prevent your predestination wanes in your presence here in the park prior to Hercules giving me his business.
But what I really long to tell you right here and out of context, if I can be so candid, is of your chance encounter with the man who sells fresh-roasted nuts just off the courthouse steps, pistachios to be exact, and how he sold you a small snack bag before you crossed that threshold, sauntered into the courtroom, raised your right hand high, and then lowered the boom so to speak—you and the red-dyed nut finding out, at this most unfortunate hour, that you’re not on good terms. Yes, this is the message I fully intend to send: skip the bag of nuts. Sadly, it’s what seals your fate.
