Having a Ball

On the way to the park today:

A limo pulled into the parking lot of the slaughterhouse. I figure the driver must have made a mistake, but apparently not, since it was still there when Rita & I came back from the park. Why? Or more importantly, why?

Two cops were discussing the “bottoming out” party at the construction site across the street. They?ve had a long day, standing in the sun and directing traffic as trucks go in and out. One says to the other, “That beer sure looked good. Should?ve had us some.” The other replies, shaking his head, “Too many eyes, my friend. Too many eyes.”

A paintbrush was lying on the steps of the (closed) custom paint store.

A car was driving the wrong way down my one-way street. In an effort to avoid oncoming traffic, swerves onto sidewalk and knocks over construction-site related traffic cones. No injuries, but lots of in-car yelling and hand gestures.

At the park:

Rita finds a neon pink tennis ball and grabs it. An irate sweaty guy comes running out of the tennis court, yelling, “That’s my ball!” Rita, thinking he was playing, or just feelin’ mischievous, runs to the other end of the park, with Sweaty Guy in hot pursuit. I yell at her to let go of it, but she won’t. I think she’s laughing at the stupid, powerless humans. Sweaty Guy finally gets his ball, and stalks angrily and sweatily past my apologies. Rita and I slink away, both thinking, “Why didn’t he just get another ball out of the can?” and snickering.