Birthday Boys

I will never be caught by the bad people. I’m too good. Not at doing bad things. No, if I was good at that, I’d still be doing them (except in self defense, which I still get to do every so often). I’m good at not being found, at being “dead on arrival,” at being “missing at sea,” at being one of the “there were no survivors.” I won’t apologize for my abilities. They’re what I’m best at. It’s genetic, I think, like good abs on actors or being able to memorize the manual 4-digit code on your garage door opener. Call me Slick. Call me Invisible. But you better hurry, because I’ll be gone before you dial 411 for my number.

So why do I boast today? It’s my birthday. When you turn a certain age and you’re alive while doing so, it’s only human to look back on your accomplishments.

Some of my former associates in the trade used to become upset at turning this certain age. I’ve heard lots of “I’ve accomplished so little outside of prison” and “If I hadn’t taken that duffle bag full of hundreds I’d still be with my friends today.” Today is just a milestone. There’s still time to catch up, I tell them.

But that’s me, Mr. (or Mrs.) Optometrist. The wine glass isn’t half full, it’s overflowing with Cabernet.

It’s been difficult to keep up with therapy. There’s so little consistency when you need to change therapists as often as I do; when they keep dying by accident or disappearing again or I have to move for the third time in a month because the custodian’s eyebrows look remarkably similar to those of someone who wants to drag my armless carcass behind an RV near the Grant Tee tons. So instead of therapy, I meditate, do yoga, or stare at the sun until my eyes water.

It’s overrated. Therapy, I mean. But maybe just for me. I like to think that’s why I’m so hotly pursued. Not for retribution. Out of jealousy. I’m totally content with my life right now. They aren’t, so they try to off me. Hey, when Jesus was born, that king guy had all the baby boys killed so he (the king) could keep hold of his power. Same thing with me. I’m the baby Jesus and my antagonists, out of fear for their standing in their communities, want me dead. Hey, I can live with that. I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. But what about them?

Happy birthday to me.