“Is that a bird, Freida?”
“Where?”
“Up there.” Mel’s finger pointed skyward.
They sat on their small deck that Sunday afternoon. Nature could be so much more attractive to view than a flatscreen. A part of nature was their weed-littered backyard. More impressive was the sky, the firmament, and the innumerable photons that made it to the deck, their chairs, and the weeds. And yet…
“It’s not a bird, Mel.”
“How about a plane?”
“No, not a plane either.”
“What the…?
“Superman,” said Freida. “It’s Superman again.”
“Damn, again? I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a decent bird or plane, Freida.”
Yes, it was that figure again – Superman – zipping here and there, hogging the sky, looping-and-looping. Following his antics was almost indistinguishable from staring at a program or advertisement on the flat screen.
“You don’t see crows or 727s anymore, do you?”
“That guy drives everything out of the sky. By the way, didn’t they ground those planes?”
Mel cleared his throat. Would he spit on the pressure-treated pine deck or make it to the weeds? More likely, he would reach only the back steps.
“You know, I think you’re right.”
He spit as far as the top step. His chair was near the open back door. He continued rocking.
“You know what I don’t understand, Freida?”
“What’s that?”
“When it came to the 727s, why didn’t they ground Superman first?”