Not a Rock

We were walking on the beach on a warm late summer afternoon.

“Man, do I feel light-headed,” Herb said for the third time.   Then you could hear a “ffffft” sound and Herb’s head unattached from his neck and floated up into the sky, like a helium balloon, until it stopped and hovered there, about twenty feet above us.

“You ain’t just whistling ‘Dixie’,” Norm said, turning to me.  He was right.  I wasn’t just whistling “Dixie.”  In fact, I wasn’t whistling at all.

“What time is it?” Mrs. Clooney asked.

“It’s parsley sage, Rosemary,” Paul Simon answered.  He then pointed to an old man with a long white beard selling bushels of parsley from a nearby vegetable stand.

Art Garfunkel was not amused.  “I’m not amused,” he said.

“He’s right,” Norm said.  “He’s not amused.  He’s Art.”

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call him art,” Herb’s head called down from above.   His headless torso stood motionless on the beach.  Finally, Herb’s head stopped floating, and fell back towards the earth on top of his torso, reattaching itself to his neck.  Herb smiled.  “There, much better,” he said.  “Reunited and it feels so good.”

“Yep,” Casey Kasem said, kicking the sand at his feet.  “That head and torso are reunited, thanks to beaches and Herb.”

“You’re still not whistling ‘Dixie’,” Norm said, looking at me.

Once again, Norm was right.  I wasn’t whistling “Dixie.”