There was this fantasy I had when I was a kid in second grade, I think, or maybe in third, where I thought I would be walking down the street in Long Beach where I was living ... walking down Pine Avenue on that main street downtown past all the shops and the stores where my parents to me shopping ... past Walker's and Buffum's and past the Security Pacific Bank ... walking near the big clock that stood on the sidewalk with its gears exposed, when music would suddenly fill the air, when an orchestra would begin to play and all the people on the street would begin to sing a song and begin to dance the same dance and people would come out onto the street from the stores to enter into the dance and cars would stop and drivers and passengers would begin to sing ... everyone singing the same song ... everyone dancing the same dance for a hidden camera somewhere that would make the movie for others to see. They would all know the dance steps. The would all know the song. Everything would be perfect for just a short time moving in concert in juxtaposed rhythms melding into a wonderful swelling of unity. Everything perfect except for me. I was sure I wouldn't know the song. Sure I wouldn't know the steps. I would fail everyone around me by not being able to keep up with them. It would have been perfect if it weren't for me. And it could have happened anywhere: on the playground at school or while walking in The Pike. I was afraid it would happen and just as afraid that I might miss it. That I might not be there when it happened.