“So Tom Cruise enjoys the intimate company of a grapefruit cocktail?” Luna piped up, inquisitive, as we lingered over some new sidewalk scrawl on 4th Avenue.
We had just walked through an adjacent park that contains our neighborhood’s biggest playground, a full soccer pitch, 8 handball walls, a skate park, a dog run, six basketball courts, and two small community gardens. At the park’s center, a Dutch colonial house, called “The Old Stone House,” built in 1699, was the decisive site of the August 1776 Battle of Brooklyn, the first British v American clash after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and the largest battle of the Revolutionary War.
“Not sure what this author intended,” I said. “And whatever Tom Cruise might enjoy, the drink’s a ‘Pa-loma,” so who knows…”
“Maybe they meant ‘big pomelo?’” Luna wondered. “I mean, that fruit definitely offers enough girth for a Top Gun cockpit, if you know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” I shook my head, “now that you’ve conjured this image in my brain.”
“Maybe they’re just mad that Tom Cruise’s stem cells will serve as one of the seven genetic archetype lines for future civilizations,” Luna offered.
“Haha, Kid,” I laughed. “That must be it.”
“Maybe they’ll get his DNA off the grapefruit,” Luna said and smirked.
“Ok, enough of this story arc. Let’s head home.”
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