As I sit on our backyard deck, I hear a rhythmic flopping noise coming from the church road that runs parallel to our property. There—a scruffy young man is tap dancing in flip-flops, making his way down the slight hill, flip-and-flopping-and-flopping-and-flip. Flip, flip, flop. I watch him swing his arms down to his right side and up to his left. Flip, flip, flop. (You know the sound flip-flops make.) I think he’s carrying an imaginary walking stick, tap dancing sideways, crossing his right foot over his left foot. He’s like Fred Astaire tipping his top hat with a cane, gliding and tapping. Maybe he’s nuts. Maybe he just won the lottery. Tap dancing in flip-flops is no easy thing, especially downhill. This portly 20-something in his baggy t-shirt and shorts is a master of flip-flop tap and I am his imaginary audience. In my head, I’m cheering. Encore, encore.