another piece of random writing about my life that will eventually be in my famous novel

As I swoosh down the tall metal slide, I see a large pink blur out of the corner of my eye. At the bottom, I stealthily glance over my shoulder - and gag. A young man has just stepped out from behind a bush. His white tennis shoes are laced tightly. A women’s blue bikini bottom is stretched over his hiney. His sunglasses have orange lenses. Nothing else.
It takes me all of one second to take this in. I quickly yank Seth and Hannah off their swings and beckon to Morgan. “Let’s get a drink!” I grunt as I tow them along. They whine and squirm. “Come on! Keep walking, and don’t turn around!” I say in a fierce whisper. They stop wiggling and we break into a half-run. Breathless, we fling the door of the van open. Everyone piles in and I slam the door behind us. “Mom! There’s a streaker!!”
We press our faces against the windows, leaving foggy nose prints. He’s still there. His confidence is unnerving. He hasn’t done anything but strut around the park, but he hasn’t chickened out and found some clothes either. At last he leaves the park and walks down the street.
Quickly, we climb out of the hot van and run around in relief. The park is safe again. But wait. Here comes the streaker, sprinting so fast he looks like a pink eraser smudge. A large German Shepherd is a few feet behind him, large teeth glinting in the sun, barking fiercely. The streaker’s tennis shoes smack the pavement, a look of panic is on his face, his arms pump wildly. If he trips, that dog will have a lot of available skin to chew on.
A small pickup drives by and slows down. The streaker lunges through the open window. He only makes it half-way through. The driver keeps driving, the bare legs of the streaker sticking out the window. The dog follows the truck, snapping at the squirming lower half hanging out. Finally, the streaker manages to pull himself all the way in. The dog gives up, and we pick our jaws up off the ground.
We never went back to that park.