The Green Lake

Prospect Park

Boat ramp on the lake beneath Bidden Falls. Beautiful beautification renovation restoration. Tucked in between two landscaped rocks lies a discarded aluminum can. It is akin to the too-loud whisper of a guest of a disastrous party - which whisper, coincidentally or not, occurs at the precise moment of an absense of ambient party noise.

It should be noted that this moment of silence is a completely organic occurance. Anytime two or more are brought together with the express intent of engaging in social interaction as a form of entertainment, ambient sound levels rise and fall in almost predictable cycles. Even the dullest soiree of a dowdy mum has its own ambient noise. Forced conversation over music just loud enough so that the most commonly repeated phrases of the evening are (in no particular order): "Sorry?", "What?", "Eh?" , and "No thanks, I've half a glass here I'm still working on." And so

INTERRUPTION

I ask a small family group who are picnicing on the steps of the boat launch if they can confirm for me the proper name of this placid pool before which we sit. Sadly, they cannot, and indicate as much to me by a series of amiable shrugs, half-smiles, and mumbled sorries. But then one of the three young boys - perhaps five or six years of age - stands and faces me somberly. Standing as tall and erect as the reproduction cast iron lampost beside him, he stretches his arm out expansively and declares in a self-possessed tone of absolute certainty:

"It is the Green Lake. Look and see."

His arm is still extended but his gesture is now one of offering, changed from his previous posture of proprietary presentation.

And so we gaze out upon the lake together. He leaning lightly on the lampost, and I sitting on the granite steps with journal on my lap and pen at rest. And I see that indeed, it is a green lake, the rich carpet of algae making the vivid surface seem a velvety liquid meadow.

"Wow!" I say. "Of course! How obvious! The Green Lake it is!"

And so I flip back through pages, my pen now at work amending and improving the soundness and veracity of these things I tell you.

END OF INTERRUPTION

And so it was at that precise moment of silence when our hapless guest said at a level she hoped could be heard by her confidant, and propelled by a healthy shove from her diaphragm:

"My God, what a fiasco. I am SO embarrassed for her. She must be mortified, the poor dear."

The "dear" whom she refers to is, of course, our beleagured hostess. Which hostess, it might be added, was well within hearing distance on account of the aforementioned organic moment of silence. Even now the sound reverberates off of the walls and surfaces of the room and all adjoining rooms. That everlasting moment of utter stillness was the cruelest player in our tragedy.

Such was the discarded aluminum can against the idyllic bliss of the serene tableau of nature before me.

We do remember the can, yes? If I can, you can. Do the can-can. Right. So do try and keep up with me here.

So I pick up this can ever so delicately, fingertips on the very edges. I scan the immediate surroundings for a proper receptacle for such refuse as this. And lo, I see one, perhaps fifty yards or so further along the path which twists so prettily along the edge of The Green Lake. And it was with that destination in mind that I set off.

Along the way I look at this can, this burden I have loaded upon myself. I read the label absently and discover that this was an empty can of egg nog.

I stop in my tracks, suddenly confounded in my attempts to estimate the circumstances leading to the presense of the empty can of egg nog, even still in my hand. And so I think to myself in a flirtation with investigatory roleplay:

"Yo! Dudes! Let's go get a six pack of egg nog and hang out in the park and get fucked up!"

I find this thought quite amusing, and I laugh well.

Well, that's it, really.

Now I look up and it is dark. The family has melted into the twilight. Ducks make gentle splash landings into the liquid loam of The Green Lake and settle in for the evening.

I make my way home.