BOB EAGERLY crawls out of the lake. Head to tail an explosion of water blossoms. Man cringes and curses, but continues to laugh and flourish a funny pole. Bob yelps, wags his tail and circles Man in excitement. Something big breaks the surface of the lake. A strange stillness grips Bob. Man nets the monster and holds the wiggling behemoth up for Bob to see. Bob does not go back into the lake that day, nor ever again.

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CANDY IS in her hand poised over the waiting bag, further action bunged by the thought: “Wow! That’s some creepy kid!” Bundled in thick dark clothing against the Autumn chill, the only costume is a transparent plastic mask. It looks like Bob Hope or perhaps Al Capone. With every hot labored breath condensation pulsates on the underside of the façade. She hears a muffled “Tricky Treat!” And, candy is in her hand . . .

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A MIASMA of reefer, tobacco and dust hangs in the room mingled with aromas of leather, liquor, body odor and perfume. The crowd carouses and grunts unintelligibly. Distractions. Sense memories mingle with the moment. He adjusts the familiar weight of the shoulder strap. Amplifiers softly hum and emit a burnt ozoney smell. Red power lights twinkle. He hits the first chord. Music is the mantra. He whirls into a trance.

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FLOATING THREE feet off the ground is not much of a super power. For the first few months, he enjoyed the weightless sensation of hovering and the all the attention it brings. But now in dreams, Don soars much higher. He always carries a flashlight to signal airplanes in case it happens. “They would think I was a UFO,” he says. “Then, they’d see a man standing by a cloud. I would love to see the look on their faces!”

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