The Seersucker Truth is a story from the Critical Mass collection, based on quirks of our time, often seen at the beach, Cookie’s beach:
I strive for balance in my love/hate relationship with humanity, its aberrant growth and needs outpacing nature’s capacity. Few people put redemption over consumption.
I seek solace from the din but lose hope in the melee, as the teeming refuse yearning to be free gains momentum. Will a catastrophic correction meet our needs of alarming magnitude?
Dark thoughts flash.
Skivvies snag foot to block insertion, as I hop on one leg with dim prospects for sliding in or love in any form. “You bugger,” I might say, aware of what’s ahead.
Cookie gazes to be sure. She hopes it’s not her fault but with uncertainty. She’s a select individual, more aware than most but still in the grim picture, after all.
“No big deal. Not you,” I assure, leaning on the bedpost in a vain notion that great men sit to put their pants on. And women. But not me. Balance is key to aging, and I can, yet greatness remains elusive.
In another moment, the foot goes through the leg hole for an easy up and on. A jiggle or two, and it’s time for shorts and a T.
Cookie relaxes a bit, still giddy for a beach walk. She knows the pattern: skivvy dance, ratty shorts, beach flops. We walk it every day.
Skivvies buffer the nuts and keep the shorts up, having purpose, as few things do.
Cookie knows the skivvy drill too. The dog also serves.
