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Lonely | May 06 2002

Only one balloon remains. There were two balloons once, then three, then two again. I considered saying something when the third balloon disappeared, but what was there to say? A balloon is gone.

Both missing balloons must have broken off and fallen into the yard. A string dangles from the branch where the most recent one had hung. When I saw this, I wondered what a person who puts stock in “signs” would say, what meaning might be “found” there.

Anything and everything, I’d imagine.

A friend once worked on a film with a famous actor/writer/director. The actor/writer/director hit on her for a week, praising her “artistic vision” and saying how he wished he had a ring to give her (he was married to his fourth wife at the time).

My friend was torn. She knew he was full of shit, but she was also attracted to him, this famous actor/writer/director. So she went for a walk looking for signs. Along the way she spotted two dead birds and an upturned dead beetle. The beetle decided it. She appeared at the actor/writer/director’s office and said, “I’m sorry, but we’re not having an affair.”

“What are talking about?” he said. “Don’t you realize how I feel about you?”

“You said you believe in signs.”

“Yes.”

“I saw signs in town.”

“What signs?”

“Dead birds. A dead beetle.”

“This is the country. There’s dead shit everywhere!”

“The beetle was upturned.”

“Okay, that’s not good.”

(My friend discovered later that he propositioned three other female crew members before embarking on an affair with the make-up artist. Evidently, five is a lucky number.)

The remaining balloon, silver once, is now a dull gray. I hate to admit it, but it looks lonely without the blue one next to it.