Capacitor, Finger Lakes, Swedish Mathematician

Power lines. Capacitors. This was at the lake. Wells. Kites. Swedish mathematicians. Harold wasn’t himself. Or was finally himself. This was at the lake. There were so many balloons. Leftover balloons from the parade. Now airborne. Harold liked a good muffin, a nice blueberry muffin. Blueberries didn’t grow around these parts. Or maybe they did: Harold didn’t know much. These wayward balloons would incite many a UFO report this evening. All because of the parade. A balloon is fun for only so long. A very old man said that to Harold once. The very old man was holding a balloon. “A balloon is fun for only so long,” said the very old man, and then he released the balloon. Harold and the very old man watched the balloon rise. Harold watched it for a length of time that felt long but probably wasn’t.  Or felt not long but probably was. In either case, when Harold looked down, the very old man was gone. In the very old man’s place was a single black dress shoe with a frog inside it. The frog hopped out of the shoe and disappeared into the marsh. The shoe had tassels.

Harold held, in his right hand, a triple-A battery.

This was at the lake.

In the sky were so many balloons. Red and blue and yellow and purple.

Harold tried his damnedest to remember why he was holding a triple-A battery. This is one of those moments, Harold thought. Harold had been having lots of such moments lately.

Harold was forty-nine.

This was at the lake. But the Earth wasn’t happy. The wind was aghast. The clouds were disgruntled. The sun had had just about enough of their nonsense.

Under Harold’s feet were so many dead dinosaurs.

Harold wondered what would happen if he swallowed the triple-A battery. Would it pass? Would it stay in his stomach? Would it dissolve? Would it kill him? Would it feel like anything? Would it get lodged somewhere? Would it tingle? Would it weigh him down? Would he feel it moving around in there? Tumbling? If someone pressed on his stomach, would they feel it? Would it leach toxins into his bloodstream? Would he need an operation? Would X-rays reveal other stuff in there? Rocks?

Harold didn’t swallow the battery. This was at the lake. The clouds were unhappy, and the sun wasn’t angry, just… Harold said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Harold put the battery in his front pocket, where his car keys were. He didn’t know what else to do with it. His car was in the parking lot. There were five other people within shouting distance. A group of two and a group of three.

Harold liked Ms. Pac-Man. He liked Ms. Pac-Man way more than Pac-Man. He didn’t know why. The café next to the lake had a Ms. Pac-Man machine, and Harold liked to play it. He had the high score. He also had the second-highest score, and the third-highest, and the fourth-highest. Not the fifth-highest, though. Charlie114 had it, the prick. Harold hated Charlie114.

This was at the lake. Balloons. Kites. Six: a Swedish mathematician sat cross-legged in the sand.

Seagulls. The swoop of them. A seagull picked at a muffin. In the sand. There was hope here once.