WE TIED THE MAGAZINES TO OUR BALLOONS AND LET GO.
Four days later, as complaints began to come in, Ish and I got in Ish’s car, as the son of two English professors rubbed his forehead. “This is what we get for being unoriginal.”
At the first address, I saw the light-blue rubber jerking, with the Daily Sludge (it wasn’t daily) tied beneath it, trapped under a fence post, anchoring the frantic balloon to our unwelcoming literature. Call Me Unoriginal parked on the shoulder and walked to the remains of our well-intentioned gift. I cut the string with a keychain knife before Ish could say anything and let the balloon go. It wasn’t long until our sad balloon became tiny, blending in perfectly with the cyan blue sky.