The other day I had to go into my closet and dig out my birth certificate ‘cause of this thig with th—well I guess the reason don’t matta. Anyway. I coulda swore it was in the file cabinet where it fuckin’ belongs, but just as is the case with everything in my life, of course it couldn’t be that easy. So, I went rootin’ through all these old boxes, wondering where in the hell Ma coulda put the thing before she passed off all those old papers to me when I moved out for the first time. There was this cardboard file box with a lid beat to shit by some kids with crayons and a sharp pencil (probably me, my brotha, or both). I stared to feel like I knew that box, or at least the lid. I think it used to sit on the floor in the study where I did my homework every day through elementary school. I took off the lid and learned at least one of us kids knew how to use the crayons for their intended purpose after all. Not very well, but hey, lines on paper instead of cardboard lids is a fresh step in the right direction. There was pages and pages of these thin, yellowed papers with stick figures and what looked like picnic tables next to large shrubs of broccoli engulfed in the wildest fire you ever seen in your life. Musta been my handywork—or the handiwork of whatever little monkey used to be me. I remembered drawing that. Probably because I drew out the same scene over and over again as a kid ‘cause someone told me how great my artwork was.

And just like that I was back to the earliest years of my life. In my mind you see. Back in the front yard of Mrs. H, my daytime babysitter. Mom’d always drop us off at her place when she just needed a minute. You know what I mean? I sure as hell didn’t like being there when I was three, but by whatever holy heaven’s up in the sky did I love it now—being back there in those simpler times. Back when you could lose any paper no matter how special it was to you ‘cause, hey, there’s always more red crayons in the box, just go make another drawing. The days before all the fussin’ around with the important paperwork stuff us adults are always going on about. It was so good to be back there, I thought I might start sinking into my own mind like a quicksand pit where every grain is pure nostalgia. I was so deep in my own memory, I could almost hear the discordant chorus of children singin’. Come be my playmate. Come out and play with me. Oh boy would I ever. I’ll be your playmate any time. You stick some other shumck with my schedule at the plant so he can twiddle away the hours of his life and I’ll rush over to play witchu, sweetheart.

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I’da stayed in that coma-dream of Mrs. H. strummin’ her acoustic guitar while us kids bounced around until my soul just quietly sauntered along if I coulda. But I got to thinkin’ about how there was always that one kid, that know-it-all little boy who probably went home and wondered why his feet was too small to fit in his daddy’s shoes. The kid who would yell out, monster trucks three! at the top of his lungs because he couldn’t stand the thought of saying the word dollies. God forbid other people could just enjoy things as they are and not ask for nothin’ more from life than what they’s given. Can hardly say I blame the kid though. Probably some implanted notion of an older brother or closeted gay uncle stuck in his mind. His three-year-old ego couldn’t help blurting out the manliest thing he knew at the smallest sign of anything girly. Unless people are just born assholes, then I don’t know what. And that thought just about ruined it for me. Just imagining the smug look on some boy’s face as he blurted out monster trucks three! and thinking about the sleezy, rich, alpha-male, better-than-you-in-every-way kinda guy he would grow up into made me sick. He’d rock back and forth on his knobby knees with a baby-tooth grin on his face, laughing at his own joke—even if nobody else paid him no mind because it was only the fifteenth time he’d done that same thing during song time. Made me picture my neighbor Jesse as a kid. The son of a bitch who doesn’t haveta say nothin’ ‘cause he lets you know he has a bigger dick than you with his fuckin’ eyes. Whiplashed me right back down to reality where I got more debt collectors calling me to come out and play than I do real people anymore.

Found the birth certificate. It’s in the file cabinet now, and I can cross at least one task off my to-do list for this weekend. Now here I am, with nothin’ more than the pressures of that overdue hospital bill I thought I already paid and those bounced paychecks I need to call somebody about. God knows who though. You’d think they would make that obvious? Upfront? Easy-to-find? Think again, loser. Those names are buried deeper than the memories of your earliest childhood memories. Go look. Find their names for me. Get me the numbers of all those faceless ghosts of adulthood I gotta call to take care of life’s problems and I can call them up. I’ll call them, and when they pick up I’ll just whisper in the receiver, “Come be my playmate. Won’t you come out and play with me.”