In heaven you get: A baloney sandwich with a slice of American cheese, a sheet of iceberg lettuce, mustard, and/or Miracle Whip, some Fritos or Ruffles on a paper plate, also home to a crowd of migrating pork ‘n beans buoying a white plastic fork. Also, a cold king-size Coke in a glass bottle, dripping picturesque rivulets.
There is a redwood picnic table on the grass with napkins and a jar of butter pickles. And a yard with a swingset to stand by. The sky is blue. There are three fluffy white clouds adrift. Birds are singing like crazy and occasionally zip by, quick as a wink, but they are not standing around in plain sight twittering or tweeting. There are no wires for them to loiter on.
The swing is too small for your ass, but it is really just for looks. It looks nice. There is a slight breeze, just a puff. Not much is happening. It’s almost time to sit on the freezer. More ass appropriate.
Later means cinnamon Pop Tarts with butter, blisteringly hot. Great Shakes and the Monkees or Jetsons, take your pick. That’s in the Den, also called the rumpus allusion.
Outside the yard is the horizon. There are some bare gray trees on it. They trace invisible forces with their limbs. But they are very tiny and far far away.
No insects—well, there are ants, but they are just quietly singing In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida waiting for a crumb. No problem.
There is a little league game, if you want to watch. The announcer is a real character. His warm voice booms to the treeline and back and all around. The little guys sure swing and shout and kick up a storm of dust.