Next Time, Pow! Right in the Kisser!

Judge me for my cover, and I will pound you with the book

(Zombie Micah / The Portrait of Micah Gray tattoo on my foot by Fish, Th’ink Tank Tattoo)

“Hello there.”

“Hi! How are you?”

I had just pushed the fence post to the right and reached with my left hand to lift the latch as the omnipresent bark of my parent’s neighbor’s dogs boiled my blood. Just once, I thought to myself, it would be so nice if those fucking dogs would just shut up.

Moving rapidly, I walked into my parent’s backyard and retrieved the house keys that my dad had hidden in one of those silly plastic HIDDEN KEY HERE rock looking thing and made my way back around to the front of the house.

“Hi!”

“Hello.”

This was the second time I heard her acknowledge me through the fence. Fine, I thought, fucking hell-fucking-lo. “Hi! How are you?” Just, please, for the love of all that is holy, just train your dogs so they stop barking as if their lives depended on it. Silence from over the fence.

It wasn’t like that was the only time her dogs barked, or that they particularly didn’t like me. Like most little dogs, barking seemed to be what they were good at. It just drove me nuts to know that yet another dog owner would not take the time to work with their dogs and make them happy.

Walking into the house, I saw my parent’s cat, Shadow. I guess it wasn’t going to be a good animal day for me, since Shadow was just crazy, and not crazy in a post it to Reddit kinda way, but in blood will be drawn.

I avoided her crazy ass.

Next to the tree, my dad had propped up the workbench he had bought me for Christmas. Weighing in at well over 100 lbs, I had decided to come back over the weekend to load it into my car and bring it home.

Of course, it was the weekend my parents were at their house in Hawaii, so there was no one home to help me. Frankly, that wasn’t much of an issue, given I am not a small guy, and have the energetic stupidity of an ex-athlete who has forgotten that he is now old and fat.

I climbed through the garage, which has become a museum to everything my mom and sisters decided they didn’t want in their houses, and found my dad’s dolly. I struggled getting the workbench, which was still in it’s box onto the dolly and rolled it outside.

My parents had decided it was a great idea to park three cars in a two car driveway. One of the cars is a 1976 Datsun King Cab, which last ran when I last ran, which was probably in high school. I parked my car perpendicular to the house, one-third in the driveway, one-third on the sideway, one-third on the street.

At this point the dolly just pissed me off so I dumped it. Screw it. I can carry this thing myself.

As I inched it closer to my car, I see my parent’s neighbor in her driveway with the phone to her ear. I put down the box, and wave.

She doesn’t respond.

I wave more vigorously, and add a hello.

She shakes her head.

Befuddled, I pick the box back up and carry it to my car.

“I don’t know you,” she finally says.

Well. This is my parent’s house. I’ve lived here since the seventh grade. I once fell out of the tree in your yard as I was hiding in it and throwing oranges at Andy, who lived up the street and made home-made naplam.

“I didn’t know they had a son.”

Yup. My whole life.

“I thought he lived in Colorado.”

I paused.

How could their imaginary son live in Colorado? And if, this son made of light beams did live in Colorado, would it be possible that he used that new fangled invention known as an aero-plane to come visit?

Which actually sounded more like: I used to. I’ve lived out here for the last three years.

“Oh.”

Well, it’s nice to meet you.

“Are you sure you are their son?”

According to 23andme, it said my mom is my mom, so yes.

“Oh. I guess I should tell the cops I made a mistake.”

What. The. Living. Fuck. Ing. Hell? That would probably be a good thing. In fact, since it appears you are currently on the phone with the police, why don’t you tell them of your awful mistake?

“Um. Well …”

Hi Officer.

Why does this seem to happen so often to me? It can’t be the tattoos, as I remember being in middle school and having someone call the police on me.

I am not a bad guy, right?

“Hi Mom,” guess what happened with your neighbor?

I told her the story. My sister, who had to come to ensure that I didn’t get arrested by the cops told her the story.

“What do you expect,” my mom started knowingly. “you have tattoos and are scary.”

Fuck me.

I know I invite the misconceptions of who I am because I am heavily tattoo’d, I never wear pants or shoes, and swear just a little too much.

Like that meal you cooked that looks like vomit but tastes like heaven, my first impression can be confusing.

Imagine a world, where we didn’t make that assumption. Where we took five minutes to say “hello,” look the person in the eye and smile. Especially if the other person is a complete stranger. Or maybe your neighbor’s son.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I don’t celebrate my birth, because I would much rather earn the right to have my life celebrated one day. What do I hope is said on that day?

“That Micah. He sure was a good dude.”