Big silver kettles. Shiny, hot, steaming. The little dial on top like a weather vane turning as the cucumbers inside become pickles. Canning season. The weather vane turns - it's going to snow soon - on the fall parade, the floats, Santa a big balloon. Let go of him and he'll fly up, hover over the city like Goodyear's blimp - Santa hovering like Godzilla or the Pastry dough boy, terrorizing the city as the extras flee the set. In his black boots he climbs up, squeezes into a dumptruck and drives around the block to Macy's, picks out a tie - long, with paisleys, to make a better impression. Everyone needs a job and terrorism gets old fast. Maybe sporting goods - he did like to fish, but careful with those hooks! One snag and that's it. Or canoeing. He could turn people onto that - floating down the Peace River, watching out for gators and snakes. Teaching happy campers how to work the kerosene lamp and cooking equipment. He could be right handy. Work as a river guide and explore the woods when they bank for the night. Out in the trees he arches an ear to all the birds cawing and whistling. Gathers wood for the campfire. Rests on a log - a tired Christmas balloon in short sleeves and a paisley tie carrying his metal lunch box deep into the woods.