When I am gone, my son wants to know if he can come over some times.  He has his own key.

“Just make sure you lock the door when you leave, ” I say.  “We wouldn’t want any hobos walking into the place.”

This, of course, disintegrated into a conversation about just how many hobos would actually fit into the apartment.  At roughly 1200 square feet, we both guessed at least 1000 hobos.

“That’s a lot of hobos,” I say.

“They’d be packed in pretty tight,” my son says.

“I’m thinking tempers might flare,” I say.

“Yea,” my son replies.  “But no one could fight because their arms would be pinned down to their sides.

“You’re right,” I say.  It’s an easy thing to visualize.

So in the end we decide that while a handful of hobos are dangerous, a thousand or so wouldn’t cause as much trouble as one would expect.

Yes!  It’s official.  Thanks to my brief mention of nude roller coaster riding the other day, more visitors showed up at my doorstep then ever before.  My front yard was literally filled with gawkers.  They milled around and waited.  Some tried to peek through the windows, while others picked the flowers.  One woman nursed a baby.  I saw a frisbee passing back and forth in front of the window, and even heard someone break out a guitar.

But I was just a link.  A mere path along the way.  Didn’t they know this?  Obviously not.  They kept arriving until I suddenly realized that I was beginning to feel a pressure building.  I didn’t know what it was at first, but then it hit me - it was the pressure to entertain!  I felt like a host and they were my guests. 

I almost thought I should break something special out.  But I wasn’t quite sure what would keep a yard full of people entertained.  It’s not like I could break out the barbecue and grill up some hamburgers.  No, this was a special crowd.  These were people who were desperately looking for a photograph of nude people on a roller coaster.  A finicky bunch.  I wondered if they knew that a ladybug, should one happen to crawl across their monitors, would be large enough to block out the “interesting bits” on at least three of the nude roller coaster people.  From what I saw, this photograph was about as entertaining as watching Lilliputian sumo wrestling.  No, I take that back.  It wasn’t nearly that entertaining.

But then I thought of something.  Something that might just work.  What about my account of the historic erection contest?  Would that work?  I couldn’t be sure, considering the mixed group and all, but what did I have to lose?  Everyone, I thought (remember, I was under a tremendous pressure), likes a good erection story.

It’s a good thing the sun sometimes sets before poor ideas find their way into the light.

Sometime early this morning the nude roller coaster craze began to dwindle.  The crowds slowly thinned.  One by one they turned and headed off in search of god only knows what.  Well, you know.  You see them there in your stat counters.  You know.  And I’m glad they’re gone.  I’m glad they packed up their frisbees and busy eyes and nursing babies before I made a complete fool of myself.  This morning I realized that things could have gone terribly wrong.  The crowd might have very well seen through my story, grown frustrated and angry with my presumption, and become an unruly, fearsome mob.  They may have stormed the place.  Let’s face it, they were here to witness something real, not listen to me read a fictional account of an erection contest that never actually took place.  What was I thinking?

I sure dodged a bullet on that one.

I think sometime long ago I might have seen a man get killed.  I don’t remember when it was, or how it happened, but I do remember the look in the man’s eyes, a wild, darting motion that seemed to say this can’t be happening. 

I faintly remember watching as the man’s disbelief spilled out into the air and floated close and thick like fog, hovering around our heads until every last bit had been sucked down into our lungs.  It was only then that everything was quiet and we were able to turn and walk away.

Imaginary Keith is no man’s man when it comes to the dentist.  His theory has always been run.  Run fast and run hard.  Don’t let them catch you.  Run until you’re out of breath.  Whatever you do, don’t stop running.

But Imaginary Keith has put on a few pounds these last few months and isn’t quite as quick on his feet as he used to be.  And he was no speed demon to begin with, so his running theory doesn’t hold much wind.  Imaginary Keith doesn’t hold much wind.

But like I said, he’s no man’s man when it comes to the dentist.  So the least I can do is provide excellent around the clock care for him until the Novocain wears off.  And with strict instructions from the dentist not to do any chewing for a minimum of four hours, he will need to be watched like a hawk.  So like I always do for my friend, I have called in a team of nurses whose sole job is to see to it that Imaginary Keith is kept comfortable and hydrated while he recuperates. 

That’s Agnus on the left.  She’s the one with the demure smile and holding the fan.  Next to her is Ruth Ellen, seen here reaching for Imaginary Keith’s pulse or something.  And then there is Ruth Ellen’s sister, Birdie, who specializes mostly in pillow fluffing.  I’m not sure she’s a real nurse, but she comes with the team so I don’t say anything.  Finally, the woman who you see preparing to rub a little ointment onto Imaginary Keith’s numb lips is head nurse Esther Olsen.  Esther says very little, and rules the roost with a firm but gentle Norwegian hand.

I usually like to keep my eye on Agnus.  Her enthusiasm for Imaginary Keith is at times almost uncomfortable.  I can’t actually say that she’s ever acted unprofessionally, but then Esther has never left her and Imaginary Keith alone in the same room.  If you ask me, I think it’s for the best.

Someday I will tell you all about my good friend, Headless Lawn Man.  I will tell you everything.  I will tell you about how we came to be friends and about the places we have traveled to together.  Headless Lawn Man loves to travel, and is very excited about our upcoming trip.  It’ll be his first trip to both Arkansas and Minnesota, and he can hardly wait.

Headless Lawn Man is an excellent traveling companion.  He always packs light, seldom taking with him more then one bag.  He has a large, stong bladder and isn’t picky about when or where we eat or sleep.  He doesn’t complain or whine or even think about slowing me down.  Not once.  This alone is a giant plus in his favor.  You’d be amazed how easily he passes through security.

But right now isn’t the time for stories.  With only four days left until we leave, there is much to be done.  We’re pounding our way through the accounting and arranging work schedules.  He’s paying bills and I’m completing bids.  As odd as it sounds, he has quite a head on his shoulders when it comes to money.  He assures me that everything is fine. 

Stop thinking so much, he’ll say.  Relax.  Take a load off.

I’m not quite sure if he is referring to my head or what.

The man tumbled down the hill, rolling and bumping into clumps of grass and small shrubs and stones.  His arms and legs flopped loose like a rag doll’s, his hands opening and closing on one emptiness after another.  Where it was grassy it wasn’t so bad.  Softer and more quiet.  In the grass he would almost begin to think that he would stop rolling.  He would almost begin to think that it was only a small hill and not a small mountain.  He would almost begin to think it’s just like being a child, rolling across the lawn .

But then the ground breaks and the grass gives way to something steeper and looser.  There is no time to think.  The ground, now patches of gravel and stone, make his time in the grass feel like a dream.  His skin rips and tears, and his blood reaches out like hands, clenching and grabbing at the dirt and dust and rock for a handhold.  His eyes begin to swell shut as his arms, broken and useless, slap along at nothing.

But from a distance, the man’s tumble may look very different.  Someone may very well look up and think it is a young boy having some fun, turning somersaults down a gentle slope on a warm summer afternoon.  Someone looking up and seeing the shape rolling down the hill would probably smile and imagine something pleasant from their own memories.  They would probably think something like, What a lucky boy, turning such slow somersaults down such a fine hill.  They might even turn to whoever they are with and point up the hill, saying something like, Look how smooth it looks up there.  Wouldn’t that be fun?

Dear Ann,

It seems you have found your way to an old article of mine from last March which dealt with the mysterious Sphinx cat.  First off, let me thank you for taking the time to not only stop by, but ask a direct and very clear question.  Thank you.

Let me take a moment to answer your question.  No, I do not have any female Sphinx kittens for sale at this time, nor do I know where you might be able to find such a beautiful, hairless, creature.  While I do enjoy cats, I can’t actually claim to be a cat fancier.  My own cat goes by the name Barn Cat, because, you see, he lives in the barn.  A true cat fancier would never name their cat based solely on where their cat spends most of its time.  I imagine if I had a Sphinx cat, either male or female, I would end up naming it Sweater Cat, because surely a cat with no hair spends much of it’s life wrapped up tightly in a sweater.

But it is easy to understand how I might be mistaken for a cat fancier, given the fact that I was comparing men to Sphinx cats.  That, I would agree, seems like a leap that only a true cat lover would take.  I’m not sure why I wrote the article.  Maybe, just like you, I was moved by the grace and flow of the Sphinx.  There are just some things in life that are hard to look away from.

I can assure you, however, that should I become a cat fancier in the future, I will file all articles concerning the proper care and breeding of cats under a category suitably titled.  Something like Feline Friends or Cat Crap.  I promise you (and all other cat fanciers) that I would do a much better job of separating my posts, making sure that all serious cat-related articles never find their way into the Exaggeration category.  That would just be wrong.

Good luck, Ann, in your search for your new female Sphinx kitten.  I wish you all the success in the world.  I should confess that I’ve never actually even seen one, other then in pictures, so I’m guessing there aren’t any around here.  But like I always say, if someone has a picture of something, then it must be out there somewhere.

I’d write more, but I need to get back to my friend.  He’s sick in bed, but being well-tended by a very nice group of nurses.

When working on my biography, I like to keep in mind certain little things that others might tend to overlook.  Things like, if they turn my life into an idiot’s guide, where on the shelf will I be squeezed?

I like to think that the idiot’s guide of my life will be filled with verifiable facts and very down to earth.  I like to think that my idiot’s guide, when it talks about my faith, will compare me more to a beagle then a religion.  That when I stood there, talking to you with such a serious look, I was just as likely to lean over and lick your face as I was to try and save your soul.

Although I knew it was coming, the arrival of the invitation caught me off guard.  The work ethic masquerade!  I hadn’t been invited for years, and honestly thought I would be overlooked for the third year in a row.

But there it was!  The beautifully hand-written invitation, black on white, memo style, with Keith scratched in on the recipient line and get to work the only three words on the subject line.

Simple and direct with no room for confusion.  As any invitation should be.

Sometimes, mostly at night, when he thinks I am not looking, I will catch Imaginary Keith with a faraway look in his eyes that tells me he is thinking of them.  Maybe the days are too busy, or there’s something about them that I don’t know, but it is almost always at night when I see his thoughts begin to drift.  I know very little about them, really, except that they wore little or no clothes and kept mostly to themselves, somewhere deep in a forest that apparently no one seems to know about.  I know that when Imaginary Keith says anything, he says both “he” and “she”, so I know there were both men and women.  I also know that there were exactly 23 children, because once in a rare moment of confession, he told me.  “There are 23 children,” he said, “and I can see everyone of their faces, right now, like they were standing here in front of me.”  His eyes were closed, his face soft and relaxed as he said the words, and I knew right away that it was true.

I asked him once what they all did, all day, running around like that in the forest with no clothes on, and he just smiled and told me that it was no different then anywhere else.  “We just went about the business of living,” he said.  The business of living?  What business could that be?  What business do naked people have, flopping around the forest together?  Sometimes I would ask more questions, but the answer was always the same.

I’d almost stopped thinking about Imaginary Keith’s time with them, until one day, out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “You know what we did?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.  Not at first.  But then I saw his face go slack and smooth, sort of quiet and peaceful, and I knew it was about them.  About his time with them.  I waited, silently, hoping there was more.

“Every morning we would gather together and predict the future.  We would give each other dates and then listen to what everyone had to say.  Some of us would have a year, some maybe a month.  Some only a week or a day, maybe even an hour.  Everyone would be given a time in the future, then a moment to think, and then the time to tell everyone their prediction.  That’s what we did every morning.  That was our business.”

“You mean to tell me you ran around naked, predicting the future?  You could do that?”

“Of course we could.”

“That’s incredible.  Really.  That’s really incredible.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“And that’s why you look so faraway, isn’t it?  You miss the predicting.  You miss knowing the future.”

“No.  That’s not it at all.  I miss the evenings.  I miss the evenings when we would all gather back together.  That’s what I miss.”

“The evenings?  What happened then?”

“Why, that’s when we would all gather together and laugh.  That’s when we would all laugh so hard that it felt like it would never end.  That’s what I miss.  The laughter.”

“It sounds fun.  What were you laughing at?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“It makes me smile, even now, just thinking about it.”

“Come on, tell me.  What were you all laughing about?”

“Ourselves, of course.  Only a bunch of fools would gather together each morning to predict the future.  You can’t do that.”