I am sitting in the top half of my donkey suit, conversing with my pet rock Carl Sagan, when my afternoon reverie is interrupted by an unexpected appearance.
"You shouldn't nanny that stone so. One day she must spread her wings and fly."
I draw in my breath, sharply. Can it be? There, framed in the doorway of my spacious desert home, stands a veritable NBA superstar. His jaw is set and his eyes twinkle with a ferocious sparkle. "For what reason," his resonant voice intones, "do you wear the skin of that ungulate?"
I explain how I am a member of a local theater production that surrealistically depicts the Donner Party's descent into the underworld. I have been hired to play the avenging spirit of the Party's pack animal, Raisins.
"They cleave my body in half to feast on my insides," I say, "so I return to feast on their consciences."
"But who will play your lower half?"
"That," I whisper, "remains to be seen."
The superstar laughs heartily at this, and we agree to get iced teas together. After sipping my refreshing beverage for some time, I finally venture to ask, "Mr. Basketball, do you like music?"
He raises an eyebrow provocatively. "They say music is the language of the heart."
I meet his steely gaze, a bead of sweat standing out on my forehead inside my donkey suit, and I am keenly aware of his basketball prowess. "So they do."
"Certainly," he laughs, spinning dual grapefruits on his fingertips. "I am a man of many interests."
"Then perhaps you would like to hear my... progressive math rock band?"
The basketballer grows still, and his gaze becomes distant. He leans back, and when he speaks, it is with a quiet intensity. "Yes."
I hurry him away from that gaudy locale and into the cool, comforting confines of my musical studio. The three members of my band are ready and waiting for me there. I nod confidently to them as I place Carl Sagan upon my amp.
The superstar is a stern fortress of strength, watching us imperiously, but with an air of humorous approval. Feeling sweaty and flushed, I take a deep breath and introduce my band, Hangnail Homicide.
We begin playing our set, and it is like no set we have ever played before. My fingers fly over the guitar strings like tongues of lightning over a Tesla coil. My drummer keeps the difficult time signatures with ease.
The angular, dissonant chords slide out of the amplifiers like stillborn calves from healthy cattle.
My deep and insightful lyrics, roughly barked in my inimitable vocal style, launch the basketball player's moral mind into new stratospheres, the air of which he has never tasted before. I can see the wonder in his eyes as he suddenly ponders our role in Iraq, and my eyes, too, roll up into my head!
The swirling ecstasy of sound engulfs me and lifts me and fills my body with a burning light, and for a moment, yes, we see God together!
And then it is gone, like a poof of dryer lint: our beautiful set, finished.
Drenched with sweat within my donkey-suit accoutrements, I shakily turn towards my hero. He stands back in the shadows, his face obscured. I call out to him. "Why do you stand back? Was the noise too great for you?"
He reluctantly steps forward into the light, and I see his face is drenched with tears. "No, my friend. The emotion was. Beauty overpowers even the strongest of hearts... and even MVPs must weep."
At this I laugh and weep also, and I ask him to sign Carl Sagan's favorite basketball, and he agrees. Then, I learn the most valuable life-lesson a college student could ever learn: heroes are more than autograph-machines: they're people, too.
Matthew Neff is an English literature major. Criticize his satire at: matthew.neff@asu.edu.
