Play

"Get him! Get the dragon!"

-- some kid in the neighborhood

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Human beings are natural storytellers. I don't mean that every person is necessarily good at it, or that "it comes naturally" to everyone, but simply that we are all inclined by our nature to tell stories. And children especially:

To get to the laundry machines, I have to leave my apartment, go down two stories of stairs, out the door, around the corner, and in through the basement door which is at sidewalk level. This door is old and heavy but short and squatty, a Hobbit's door, about two feet shorter than normal doors.

I came down just now with a basket of clothes, keys in hand. The late afternoon is turning out gorgeous today. It's at that magical temperature where to stand in the sunshine is slightly warm (like an armful of just-dried clothes, actually) but to stand in the shade is perfect. The slanting sun is making long angling shadows on neighboring houses and trees are at once bright and dark. Bugs seem afraid to fly, and so they cling to walls. The ice-cream truck's warble, the ceasing a drone of engines relaxing and turning off, a smell of grass, a smell of barbecue. I'm sure they have this sort of thing in other countries, but it truly feels like an American afternoon.

Kids were playing in the street, four boys. They looked out for cars and paused while they passed and resumed when the danger was gone. They ran in and out of the lines of parked cars and their sneakers kicked and swiped at the curb. "Get him!" one cried, pointing at the adept one who had ricocheted off a brick porch and leaped over a flower garden. "Get him, get him! Get the dragon! He's at the castle!"

Until that point, I thought they were merely playing tag.

I don't know these kids, but it crossed my mind that they were about the same age as the ones who will be in the after-school drama program. About twelve years old, escaped to a world where a dragon perches on the sides of castles and bounds over forests. Twelve years old, and already a million miles away in a past that never existed. And I couldn't help but stop at the bottom of my porch, basket and keys in hand, watching as they hunted the dragon.

One kid stopped running, winded. He looked at me. "You're not tired, are you?" I said.

"That dragon's fast," he panted. "We can't get him." And he ran off.

After a moment, a woman in an orange dress, orange like she was begging for autumn, came out onto her porch. She smiled and laughed. When the dragon came near her porch, she suddenly leaped at him with her arms in a ring and trapped him in a single, swift grab, lifted him from the sidewalk (his feet were still making running circles and his eyes almost glowed with angry terror), and shouted, "Gotcher dragon, you little punks! The Fairy Godmother gotcher dragon!" And, having him trapped with his arms in the air, she wedged her hands into his armpits and began to tickle.

"Mom! Stop! Let me go, Mom!" the dragon cried.

"Never!" she laughed in triumph.

"Mom! Stop tickling me!" the dragon cried, more shrill this time.

"Let's get him!" cried the little punks, and they joined in the tickling. The mob fell on the dragon, writhing, screaming, gasping, trying to escape, trying to crawl away.

Finally, he did. Everyone stood in a circle, breathing heavily, watching the dragon. "Mom, that's not how the story goes--"

"That's not my name, dragon."

The dragon rolled his eyes. "Fairy Godmother," he said, staring at the ground.

"That's better," she said, and she glanced at me and winked.

Key in hand, I walked to the basement door with my basket of clothes.

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Human beings are naturally storytellers, naturally actors, naturally players. Anyone who has seen kids at play knows it is no accident that we use the same word to describe children's make-believe and theatrical events. We play by nature.