fter a long day, I like to pour myself a tall, cool glass of iced tea. I’ll sit on the porch swing and gaze at the horse-dotted pasture below and, beyond that, to the small, silvery lake flanked by rolling, tree-covered hills.
How lovely, I’ll sigh. Then I’ll take a sip of my iced tea. Ahh ….
Next I’ll remove my shoes and peel off my shirt. That’s better, but better still would be sliding out of these slacks. Now that I’m down to socks and boxers, I’ll think: What the heck?
Time for another sip of iced tea. Boy, that’s good stuff.
It’s at this point that I reflect on the events of the day—people I’ve met, tasks I’ve accomplished, meals and snacks I’ve consumed. Today is gone but soon tomorrow will come and turn into today. Then today, formerly know as tomorrow, will become yesterday. Which reminds me of a song by Paul McCartney titled “Monkberry Moon Delight” from the album Ram.
Seriously, this iced tea is awesome. I only wish I could inject it directly into my veins or get one of those mobile IV drips that they use in nursing homes. Old people are so lucky.
Today is gone but soon tomorrow will come and turn into today. Then today, formerly know as tomorrow, will become yesterday. Which reminds me of a song by Paul McCartney titled “Monkberry Moon Delight” from the album Ram.
I imagine the horses below wearing hats. Fedoras, stocking caps, beanies—all kinds of hats. How stylish they would look, these hatted horses. Maybe then people would finally give horses their due instead of mocking them all the time.
If possible, I would fill a bathtub with this iced tea. Or a swimming pool. Then I would go for a swim. Whenever I got thirsty I would take a big swig of the iced tea surrounding me. They’d discover my body the following day at the bottom of the pool. “At least the bastard died happy,” the gruff but kindly coroner would remark. Everyone would laugh ruefully.
The pasture is truly beautiful. I’d like to marry it so it can have my children. Or I’d have its children. Whichever. Our kids would be half-human, half-pasture and as a result might run into some discrimination. We’d probably send them to one of those hippie private schools where you learn at your own pace and make a tire swing out of hemp. Later we’d get divorced after the pasture found out I’d been spending time in a field.
After I reflect on my day I like to think back on my childhood. I remember mom wishing me luck on my first day of school. “Give ’em hell, Bruce!” she cried. That wasn’t my name but I appreciated the sentiment. Mom walked out on us the following week and last I heard was back east somewhere selling slightly damaged candles out of her trunk.
THIS GLASS OF ICED TEA IS MY GOD NOW. I WILL PRAY TO IT EVERY MORNING AND HONOR IT ON SUNDAYS. I WILL HAND OUT LEAFLETS IN FRONT OF THE MALL TO SNOTTY TEENAGERS WHILE WEARING A SANDWICH BOARD THAT SAYS “ice tea saves!” ON THE FRONT AND “please read the front of this sign” ON THE BACK.
RIGHT ABOUT THEN—whoops, sorry. Right about then I’ll hear a voice behind me. “Hey, don’t look now,” the voice will say, “but the naked guy is on our porch swing again.” Startled, I will accidentally knock over the glass of iced tea.