September 15, 2015:
Asian man with bee stung lips and terrible posture, skulks under baseball cap while his Asian wife in floppy sun hat fiddles with baby's straps. He's a skulker, she's a fiddler, it takes them ten minutes to fiddle and skulk before their mute-faced Asian baby with very bad posture is secure in her stroller, now rolling and skulking and hat-fiddling toward the entrance.
The Park crew rearrange dog droppings with long-handled scoops. They scoop them up and throw them a few yards into the brush, laughing one and all about their supervisor, their lives, and the indignity of scooping dog droppings on Sunday afternoon.
My date is late. I read Gravity's Rainbow, fiddle with my shades, try to get some sun on my elderly, pasty, drooping old face. An old man's face, now, more and more. Thinking long and hard of the Sunday afternoons to come.