Little story #1: WHAT'S THE LESSON?

What's the lesson in the story below? There's no right answer. Take it in, give your mind a workout, and see what you come up with.

PART I:

On foot, Chad dodges through speeding delivery bikes and dog walkers to cross from the Hoboken boardwalk, south of the famous clock pier, through Park Ln, which abuts Green Park. He knows the names, and snickers inside at their generality and pop-out neighborhood punchline potential. To think, 250 years ago, American rebels were using Newport to help execute one of the greatest and least likely military victories in world history. He's off again, as his legs churn and he surveys the surroundings, into historical reverie replete with bitterness about how the world used to be and how meaningless it is now. Semi-aware of the poison he's mentally cooking up, he shakes off the crust by visually zoning in on a small group of women doing outdoor yoga.

The park is busy, though it usually it isn't. He sees dog walkers, vaguely employed security guards with a penchant for conversation, and young moms, or are they nannies, toting tepid coffee in lawsuit-insulated paper cups. A jumbled, amiable, but sadly private bunch, they are. Phones always ready, lest a tinge of angst should strike. Their precious phones, more brandish-ready and murderous than Wild Bill's 6-shooter, never stray from the discomfort-slayers' hip.. He observes, comments internally, and keeps pushing.

Chad crosses 18th St with his sharp paranoia, the one he can turn on and off when crossing a street or strutting past a fellow pedestrian whose uncertain aims and motives trigger its need. Prideful, he is, in this paranoia and his ability to crank it up at will.

Safe, now, is he. He scoots into the outer, trash-lined edges of the Target parking lot. No cars out here. He internally wonders if these far reaches of commercial parking are full during the holidays, or if they were, or would have been, when holiday shipping wasn't so impersonal and online. Just then, as he drives his body diagonally across the parking lot and toward the entrance, he sees something that arrests him with the taser that only the combination of tenderness and helplessness can produce: adult geese and their babies, crossing the Target parking lot and toward the street.

His thought: "Those little guys. When they reach the street, the assholes in their cars better see them, and better stop. People are unreliable, absolutely impossible to rely on, in these situations. Who knows what they'll do? People are capable of anything, he says to himself, as visions of cannibals, murderers, and animal torturers flash through his head from the news, movies, and shows he's seen and heard about. Hell, someone around here is liable to plow into these geese just to do it, just to kill something (as the sounds of Johnny Cash's 'Folsom Prison Blues' break into his head as if a radio just turned on: 'I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die'). He then thinks: Hopefully in that case death would come quickly for the geese, and with relatively little pain. Nevertheless, for me walking back, and for anyone driving and walking past later on, there is sure to be blood, feathers, and fuzzy little body parts to act as a reminder of the expired world we inhabit, one that's full of selfish, psychotic nut-jobs raised by human wolves." He shakes this off, best he can, because the feeling that comes with these thoughts is liable to stick to Chad for the day, and maybe beyond. He's done this dance, and knows how to keep it moving, mentally and otherwise. Off he goes. Just take another way home.

PART II (Five years later):

On foot, Chad and his 5-year-old son, Dale, dodge through speeding delivery bikes and dog walkers to cross from the Hoboken boardwalk, south of the famous clock pier, through Park Ln, which abuts Green Park. Chad knows the names, and snickers inside at their generality and pop-out neighborhood punchline potential. To think, 250 years ago, American rebels were using Newport to help execute one of the greatest and least likely military victories in world history. He's off again, as his and Dale's legs churn and they survey the surroundings, into historical reverie replete with bitterness about how the world used to be and how meaningless it is now. Semi-aware of the poison he's mentally cooking up, he shakes off the crust by visually zoning in on a small group of women doing outdoor yoga.

The park is busy, though it usually isn't. He sees dog walkers, vaguely employed security guards with a penchant for conversation, and young moms, or are they nannies, toting tepid coffee in lawsuit-insulated paper cups. A jumbled, amiable, but sadly private bunch, they are. Phones always ready, lest a tinge of angst should strike. Their precious phones, more brandish-ready and murderous than Wild Bill's 6-shooter, never stray from the discomfort-slayers' hip. He observes, comments internally, and keeps pushing.

Chad and Dale cross 18th St, Chad with his sharp paranoia, Dale his innocence. Chad's alertness and suspicion is the one he can turn on and off when crossing a street or strutting past a fellow pedestrian whose uncertain aims and motives trigger its need. Prideful, he is, in this paranoia and his ability to crank it up at will.

Safe, now, are they. They scoot into the outer, trash-lined edges of the Target parking lot. No cars out here. Chad internally wonders if these far reaches of commercial parking are full during the holidays, or if they were, or would have been, when holiday shipping wasn't so impersonal and online. Just then, as the two males drive their bodies, hand-in-hand, diagonally across the parking lot and toward the entrance, they see something that arrests Chad with the taser that only the combination of tenderness and helplessness can produce: adult geese and their babies, crossing the Target parking lot and toward the street.

His thought: "Those little guys. When they reach the street, the assholes in their cars better see them, and better stop. People are-

Just then, Dale, looking up at his father, asks: "Dad, are those geese and their babies going to try to cross the road?" Chad: "It sure seems that way." Dale: "But, won't they get hit by a car? What will happen?"

"...You know, buddy...I think people are good. I think they'll stop and let the birds cross the road. I've seen people stop for little birds and other animals many times before, and I bet they'll do it again. We sure would, and we're no better than most people. So, I think people will see them and stop. Yeah, I think we can trust people to do that."