Balloon, Man
Flanked by his goofy yellow Lab, he stood in the rich green of his suburban lawn and with hands on hips, his head tilted.
There, anchored to the Kentucky bluegrass, was a piece of plastic. Tied to the plastic plug was a massive Mylar balloon floating on five feet of rough twine. Printed on its shiny silver surface was a festive “HAPPY 50TH” message with hearts, stars and candles.
He looked up and down the street, nearly identical three-bedroom, two-bath tract homes with pressed concrete drives and endless swatches of perfect lawn.
He took a step toward the balloon and stopped. The dog circled it (but did not dare sniff) and returned to the man’s side. He looked down at the dog, and back to the balloon. He rubbed a hand across his lips, furrowed his brow.
And tuned to the home’s cheerfully decorated front porch and began to drag one of those silly, heavy wrought iron chairs across the concrete and into the lawn, the legs digging divots into the manicured green.
He sat and the dog took the signal and lay down beside him. He rested his chin in one cupped hand and rubbed fingers across Saturday stubble.
The balloon swayed in the breeze.
His neighbor passed, stopped, put a hand up to his eyes to shade them.
“Happy birthday, Rob. Fifty, huh, can that be right?”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“So what’s with the balloon?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Huh,” his neighbor said, “OK, see ya.”
“Later.”
A half-hour passed. The balloon continued to sway on the breeze.
Neighbors passed with well-wishes. He responded with cryptic shrugs. He fetched a beer from the garage fridge, drank it. Mused about the balloon, it’s origin, it’s meaning.
Finally, he fished a hand into his cargo shorts, pulled out a pair of yellow-handled garden shears. He tapped them on his chin and rose.
And clipped the twine, sending the mass of Mylar skyward.
As the balloon rose, he saluted, crisply.
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