An evening walk, a wintry dusk settling across the suburb, the air in the creek becoming cool and damp. In the near distance the sound of kids whooping and yahooing and the drrrrrrr of small, hard wheels against Macadam.
They reach the edge of the creek bank and now the fun part starts, the bit that this whole dragging the trolley from the bus stop was about, the thrill of watching something stumble down the grass, hit the concrete and somersault with the kind of jangling crash! that makes the good folk watching the news and Who Wants to be a Millionaire? sit up straight in their chairs and wonder “What the hell was that?”
And then they see this figure down in the creek. It’s too dark to make him out: is that a uniform? Is he some kind of security? They lose their nerve and run off, giggling and squawking and oh-my-godding.
Chill, groovers. It’s only me.