A gelatin eruption: the lobby of the Hilton sent diagonal. Abnormalities stopped the show. An overbooked overhead act, the trapeze collective despaired over the prospect of threadbare tightropes. Ivan glanced down, where a gelatin mold seemingly stood unharmed. He said, “Everyone, that’s the gelatin.” A kind of sparse and bated applause was generated. He started walking the rope.
A librarian rally unwound knots in prim hairdos. Regrets and memories: a flash flood roughed up the bookshelves, clumsy workmen began rolling forklifts into the classics.
All in all, tightrope-walking had restored balance to the librarian team, who were giving up their craft anyway, because kids didn’t fail P.E. by reading literature.
Healing us all, Ivan the rope-walker bounded into his jumping-jack routine, astonishing the prayerful and the agnostic. Gelatin molders began shaping an Ivan likeness from hand lotion, they were so far removed from their gelatin kitchens. “Boil more Jell-O,” Ivan retorted, off-key.
Fair enough, I thought. Ivan was exactly the kind of guy I’d like to shake hands with. I shook some dry gelatin out of the little paper packets.