One; Ron, beach cruser

With a voice like a public radio DJ, he makes a lukewarm insistence that try to walk on his tightrope.
“Its addictive,” he tells me, and the swarm of yoga bodied twenty-something’s hanging around his slack line speaks truth to this.
His long kinked hair, callused feet and patchouli halo mark him as 25 years Berkeley. The façade waivers slightly when I ask him where he went to school (Stanford), and I can hear the rivalry get caught on the T.
He sits behind me on the tightrope, keeping it steady. I ask him what he does,
“I’m a teacher.”