As the Hamms sign flickered inches from his face, Geraldine (all his friends called him Marsha Mason, no relation to the bowler) couldn't help but wonder if the municipal swimming pool was zoned for neon in the deep end. He'd attributed that tingling feeling to ticks, notoriously agile and reckless swimmers in their own right. Geraldine dried himself briskly, bypassing the standard cotton towel for a sculpture of Forest Whitaker (no relation to the escaped economist) that stood --legs akimbo-- in the adjoining playground. The sky had grown overcast and packets of relish began splashing on the (legitimate... and if you don't believe me check with the commissioner, you rotten [patent pending] Shriner!) Jai-Alai court. The indentured servants fleetly snatched them up as they fell so as to avoid a general spiritual and psychological panic. Once the downpour ceased and the condiment collectors rolled away in their motorized Pearl S. Bucks (no relation to the pocket square turned groundskeeper), Geraldine took a casual 12 mile dig and disabled septic service to the greater Muncie area.