Out by the multi-lane highway, there’s a giant rubber gorilla.
It stands upright, arms overhead, scowling at the passing motorists, threatening them with physical harm if they don’t exit by the nearest ramp and come examine its wares.
It used to stand on top of the store for which it was mascot, but yesterday it was on the ground out front, its indigo hands reaching higher than the building’s low roof.
I always look for this marketing mascot. I always acknowledge it. “There’s the giant gorilla,” I chirp.
Yesterday the giant rubber gorilla was not only unusually placed, but unusually dressed: it was wearing a loincloth. A large, white square of fabric or plastic was draped across its hips and hanging almost to its knees.
I recounted this new development to E.g., who was watching the road and didn’t see it. We concluded that the loincloth had probably been a sale banner tied to the primate’s big belly, and the upper cord had come untied, in which case the banner would hang, blank side out, in its current position.
On the drive home, E.g. accorded a moment’s attention to the giant rubber gorilla, and grinned. “Yes, that’s it exactly! It’s a sale banner that’s come loose — whatever it is they sell.”
I had to admit I didn’t know either.