The sun is an orange globe they string up on approaches to airports. A word of warning about the planet below. It's a solid colored sack of vinyl, carelessly inflated. The people on the beach are kicking it all to hell. It's a game, they're having fun, great fun. Sand is blue, that's the casual bit of information prophets let pass for wisdom these days.

First one I see is old Armchair Willie. I let loose a fast leg at his overplushness, his corpulent mess.

"Fine fucking morning you've cooked up for me today."

His tone is conciliatory as usual, deity disguised as therapist. "Sit down. Relax. Have a seat. Stay awhile. Let's talk."

But in going downstairs, down the stairs is the only way to go. Stairs are sort of similar to streets. You get on, you go north or you go south, you go east or west. Up or down. But they're always a one-way road you ride end-to-end. You have to. The law says so. There's no getting on and going this way or that. I'm upstairs, trapped. The only way to go is downstairs, all the way down the stairs. You don't get to stop part-way and turn around and go back. Not for variation. That's the law. Maybe if you remembered you forgot something back upstairs. Maybe if I suddenly decide going downstairs is a bad idea it's not too late to stop.

Because that brings you that much closer to the door. And it doesn't matter what the walls and roof, the sun's still out there. And that door goes out there where the sun is. Where it hangs like a copper pot, a raw flowerpot, waiting just to smash you. The sun is an orange. Someone squeezes it on you and you melt.

When you know all this you are often tempted to turn around and not finish going downstairs. Who wouldn't? Especially when it's not too late I can see the door and many windows bright with warning. Especially when down two more stairs but still not too late I can see old Armchair Willie just sitting there waiting. Ready with some sage advice like your dad sitting you down to impart some fatherly thoughts, shit you already know, that you know as stupid and simplistic, useless words strung in a sum plain wrong, but even that doesn't mean that they don't exist.

But sometimes when it's not too late it really is too late, and you already know it along with everything else. You couldn't stop it unless you tried. You can't stop it even if you do try. I do hesitate, but not long enough to call it hesitation. So I finish the rest of the stairs going downstairs. Once you've done that, you're done. You can't come all the way down the stairs then immediately turn and go all the way back up. The law's strict on that. Even if at that exact moment you suddenly remember you forgot something, sorry, it's too late. First you have to walk around a little bit downstairs feeling dumb for forgetting in the first place and in the second place suddenly remembering exactly one moment too late. Whereas if you've gone the other way you still have to feel stupid but by law it's okay to go right back downstairs if you can't remember if you locked the door or maybe forgot to turn off the oven. But then otherwise everything else it's strictly tough luck, you have to wait until tomorrow. Then you first have to spend many hours having dreams informed by how dumb you feel, and not just a little bit. But that doesn't matter now. That's the opposite. Then you never have to come back down because you can't suddenly see old Armchair Willie anymore.

So I go over and kick him, right where I'm sure there's no bones hiding under the soft stuff. "Some swell day you've set up for me you fucking bastard you!"

He says, "Right idea, wrong application. Come on, put your feet up. Heavens! that's what Mr. Ottoman was made for."

I ask you, what are you supposed to do with a guy like that? They won't let you cart them out to the curb anymore. You put them out on the porch and hope someone's going to come along and steal him and instead the only thing to sneak up on the porch is a letter informing you that doing that is against the law. So better watch out or they'll steal all the rest of the porch, and the house, and everything else except the chair. It'll be just you and old Armchair Willie and then you'll have to sit down. Even if they come to take you somewhere else, they'll make you take him with you.

The thing is, then right outside the sun is a fat orange balloon and the second you step out the door someone's going to make it go pop. Just for you. And then you'll have your heart attack and you'll get a little bit of pee in your pants. It'll be just a little bit of pee in your pants, but it won't ever stop being all wet. All the people will be dancing on the blue beach, and laughing so hard they'll all get a little bit of pee in their pants too. But the law says it doesn't matter because you did it first. And besides, you can tell the little bit of pee in their pants will get dry real fast.

And then, knowing all about the sun I continue on down the stairs downstairs. After that, what I do is rear back and deliver a mighty kick to old Armchair Willie exactly where it absolutely never counts. I tell him, "Tell me what the hell is going on!"

He attends to his therapeutic mode, the professional not the pharmaceutical. Old Armchair Willie tells me, "No, you tell me what the hell is going on. That's what I'm paid for. It's the law."