A warm summer breeze tunnels through a vine crawled colonnade while the sounds of children playing, cars passing and rustling of leaves seep through my headphones. Strollers lap along the perimeter making it a showcase of who pushes the most advanced design -if the stroller doesn’t have air bags, then I’m not interested. Muffled music playing through an aching phonograph attracts a small crowd to stop their activities and rush towards a white rape van decorated with peeling ice cream decals. Anxious children drag their mommies, nannies and mannies to be first in line. The cries of bratty kids who demand the popsicle with bubble gum eyes overpower the patiently waiting boy rocking a Jew-Fro. The baby Zach Braff stands quietly gripping his two dollars as he carefully observes the selection of ice cream. Judging by the intent look in his eyes, his correct choice of ice cream has the power to rid all conflict between Israel and Palestine. Make the right choice kid, your people are relying on you. Feeling the heavy pressure upon him, he requests for the orange creamsicle. Wait, what!? An orange creamsicle? I hope your proud, you just killed the hope of your people.
A terrorized squirrel gets chased across the park by a hefty, sweaty red head as he used his yo-yo to lasso the furry squirrel. I immediately don’t like him. He passes me and I give him a stinking face of disapproval. Suddenly a shrieking reprimand in Farsi was yelled by a high-strung mother who scolded her son for throwing sand at a group of kids. He probably imagined it was magical wizard dust protecting them from an evil force or he’s just a naughty little punk influenced by his dear mother. A two year old girl with a Pampers booty slowly walked around the playground for the fifth time; she must be a hooker. I saw her eyeing on the young boy riding his shiny new tricycle which obviously displayed “money.” What kind of juvenile delinquency is all this?
I sit on a shaded bench feeling out of place as I have no child to look after. Just observing as if I am waiting for the right moment to say “hey little kid, want some candy?” I give a tired, no-teeth smile to each of the mothers as they pass by just for reassurance that I have no intention of touching their kiddie’s privates. A blushed, sun-kissed boy stops in front of me and tells me “I am going to hammock.” I could not understand his gibberish and I am convinced that “hammock” is not a verb in toddler talk, but his big brown eyes and eagerness to do “hammock” has melted my heart.
The sun is going down, the kids are getting tired and I must return home to creep on other things.
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