Did you progress from the light to the tile to the coping to the air? Barely tile. Just little kisses, you know? And the coping was a different thing altogether, sticking out, begging for the truck grind. I was no aerialist. But I loved me some death box. What’s a death box? Black rectangular-shaped hole at water level in a full pool. A filter. But really a metaphor. How so? The death box was the monster under the bed, the beast in the White House, the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. We’d aim for it, flirt with it, slash our front wheels across it. You know Evel? In an abstract sense, yes. No, Evel Knievel. My dad said you and Evel were friends.