Just a sunny day

***This piece was originally published on Sept. 30, 2009, in the Dexter Flank Literary Journal and is posted here now due to the boundless generosity of that institution, for your reading pleasure.***

Today, after slightly early release from my Urban Politics class (taught by the alarmingly entertaining Lester Spence--take a class with him if you can), I was seated at a picnic table on the little patio southwest of MSE (just behind Krieger). The sun was warm on my broad, rippling shoulders and the sweet intonations of Kelly "Heart-Melter" Clarkson emanated from the twin speakers on my wonderful Apple machine. My attention was shared betwixt "Breakaway", a story on the Twins recent victory over the Tigers (now 1 game back, yay!) and the assorted passerby. As my eyes combed through the students wandering in and out of the library, searching desperately for a lad(y) worthy of more than a moment's glance, a large figure flashed across my view. Who, you ask, was this striking person capable of catapulting himself from the periphery of my vision to the singular focus of it? It was the suavely disoriented Samuel Eckstein, somewhere between a trot and a canter, accelerating but not yet exceeding the Olympic regulations for speedwalking. His phone was to his ear, his mouth was equaled only by his churning legs in exertion and his head was on a swivel as if searching the windows and rooftops for enemy snipers. He saw me and managed but a small wave, however, I was less interested in his salutation than his mission. The main question pressing through my inquisitive brain at the walls of my captivated head was, "Where the fuck is he going? And what is there which he needs?" As Sam traversed the brilliantly sunlit marble terrace, brushing bewildered asians aside, I began to chart his movement in an attempt to predict his destination. He wasn't taking a sensible route to Krieger, nor was he veering left toward my perch and the stairs beyond. There was no logical end to his dash in sight, the only thing in front of him being the black metal railing guarding against a multi-story plunge to the pavement beneath. As young Sam picked up speed going toward nothing but this railing, however, my breath gathered in my chest as I realized his true aim was to take the leap over the boundary at a run, perhaps to land in the soft bed of a speeding truck below or maybe to be caught mid-fall by a giant snowy Egret sent by Agent Sam's handlers back at the base. Excitement mounted within my loins, as now I knew the true reason for Sam's quirks and the cause for his strange disappearances and his possession of such a perplexing assortment of talents. Excitement built, too, from the knowledge that I was to see the extraction of high-level agent, usually something that occurs on abandoned rooftops under cover of night. I tried to yell, "Good luck!," but my voice caught in my throat and my whole frame was taut as he drew within mere feet of the leap. The leap, however, never happened. Instead, Sam skidded to a halt just short of the railing, bent over double (affording me a generous sight of his shapely tushy) and grabbed a packaged set of plastic silverware--complete with tiny salt and pepper pouches--from amidst a pile of dry leaves.

I have yet to ask Agent Sam what the meaning of this action was, but I suspect the extraction was somehow red-flagged and called off at the last second, though I may never know. We can only guess what was contained in that tiny plastic package; Sam probably isn't at liberty to enlighten us. No matter, I now feel safer that we have someone of his status among us.

I solemnly swear that all the facts contained herein are true. He did all the things I describe and though my mind added the rest, it wasn't so far-fetched if you had been there.

Peahzy