It is a bad time for it, I can tell. I’m still sitting behind our bush. Don’t ask. It’s a hobby of mine. You see, Bobby and me, we like to sit here and watch what happens. There’s always something good. People come from far a near here, and when you get lots of people, you get lots of idiots. We love idiots.
As I’m sitting here, I think that maybe I’m going crazy, or that maybe they outside the museum are going crazy, or that light post is displaying hallucinations, instead of light. Whichever, I hightail it out of there. Making for home, I whiz around the corner of Delson Street not bothering to look back, or ahead of me. Jumping up the step to my apartment building. I body check the door into room and-wait, this isn’t right. Before I can think, someone comes out of th-
“Hey! What are you doing in here?!”
AAHH! It’s back. Out the door I go and back onto the street. A big man on a motorcycle whizzes down. He goes to fast for me to see, but I think he’s one of them. Back down Delson Street I go, and around the corner. I stop at our bush, catching my breath. Now I understand. Policemen are allowed to carry guns.
Honestly, I have never told anyone this before and I can tell it’s not going to go well if I do. Gee, you know, I was going to tell Charles, but, it just didn’t come. I forgot what I had been planning to say and Charles thought I was a whacko. An idiot. He didn’t say it, but it was obviou. It was so embarrassing. You see because of this, I have sworn never to tell anyone. I would be a complete disaster. It would spread throughout the school like things do, and then my sister would find out and she’d tease me about it ‘til I left for college, (Call that 6 years). And then it would get throughout the state. People would know me by it. On vacation people would see me they’d say, “Hey it’s-.” Sigh. It would be bad. That’s why I’m never telling -NO! I am going to tell someone. Read more »
This is a true story (unfortunately). I was as something like four, (maybe five), and at the time every thing you do then is considered “cute.” Otherwise known as “embarrassing in twelve years.” This is a story about one of those “cute” things.
Right around then, my dad decided, or maybe “made up” a guy called the Registrar of Simons. A man who kept track of and visited every single kid named Simon on the face of the earth. But no one had ever met him. How he did this? It’s like asking how Santa manages to visit a couple billion homes in the middle of the night. In of other words pretty much impossible. But you’ve got to remember I was four (maybe four) and things were different.