There was once a professional jump roper
named John.
Well, he was a hard worker, but
he was in fourth place and
there were only three pedestals.
But boy, could he jump rope.
He didn't really get money, not
like the other guys. No, the
corporate world probably couldn't
afford fourth place. Occasionally
he'd stir up the cul-da-sac with
a little girl jump rope, strident
in pink, cascading festoons
and he'd impress us, and
boy was he fast! You couldn't
even tell where his legs were.
He was the fastest jump
roper in the world, well, the
fourth fastest. He really cared,
John spilt his whole life into
it. For a while there was a frenzy
of struggle, a conflict between man
and rope, spun in a slipknot of
incandescent passion. They trained
him, and by George, oh man,
was he fast, spinning that
rope in a
vibrant rush of
celerity, like
a mouse on
a wheel over
and over, faster
than a futurist
finding a triple
latte expresso, man
John was good at that
jump rope. But he only
made fourth place. Not a
lot of people paid attention
under the mark. John was
just another participant. He
was hoping someone would
mention the top five, yeah,
that'd be swell, but it never
really happened. Not a lot of
people liked jump roping anyway;
not like John, not like nobody.