Last July found me enduring an annoying rattle coming from a old-timey fan that once sat on the floor, aimed at my hot bits. Every time I sought relief from rapidly moving air, there was that sound. A story came to mind, of my great uncle, who once ran away from home and joined the circus, literally. My grandfather hired a private investigator, who quickly found him. As the story goes, the PI and several members of my family walked into the circus tent in which the PI had tracked him down, among the freaks. He wasn't human anymore, he was, "Bobo the Wild Boy." Frantically, he jumped around and shook the bars of his cage. People jumped back, then stared in amazement. I've been told that it was quite the display. What a world. What a world.
What happened next is family legend, related to me by my father. In mid-grunt, arms flailing, "Bobo" caught sight of his father, shaking his head. Instantly, the poor wild thing started balling. It wasn't long before he was led back to the farm. One supposes that it was for the best. Although there is an romantic appeal to being a wild anything.
Back to the fan. Last night, the aforementioned penny vibrated ever-so-gently out of the grasp that held it so tightly, and silently, these many months. It then fell into the spinning blades and kapow!, went sailing (somehow through the bars of the fan) and ricocheted off the window, leaving a tiny mark.
The fan had found it's voice again! I was awake to see this only because it happened during a pee break in the middle of the night, and a song on the radio gave me pause before I fell back to sleep. It had me ensconced in unbearable melancholy, and as I climbed back into bed with eyes welling up, a penny flew by me and hit the window.
The song was 99 Luftbalons by Nena.
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