I'm Not Afraid of a Six Year Old

About three years ago, my friends Ben and Annie Howington moved from beautiful, industrial Brooklyn to beautiful, metropolitan Raleigh, North Carolina.  With them, they took Lila Howington and my best friend, Jack Howington.  Jack was three and I was almost 30 but we found our maturity level was about the same. That's me and Jack this summer.

Me and Jack's best friendship came to a grinding halt once he moved next to Max, his same age cousin.  Suddenly, Jack stopped writing letters. ( And by letters, I mean alphabet letters.  He would just send me a crayon drawn "B" or "K". ) Jack stopped calling me on his fake cell phone.  He stopped giving me recaps of Dora and as a result my Spanish suffered.

Because of Max. Stupid little Max and his stupid cute smile and his stupid friendly disposition.  I wrote some letters to him trying to convince him to defriend Jack.  You can see evidence of them here.  But it didn't work. They remained best friends.  And I had to hang out with adults. Until I found another child, Pete, to share my interest in trains, destruction, and general naughtiness.

Well, now Max has moved away from Jack. To LONG ISLAND.  We have started our correspondence again.  Here is the message I received on Facebook.

Annie Howington said she was coming to NEW YORK to visit her "FAVORITES".  Max wrote:

James. 


"Favorites" will always equal Colliers in the Howington eyes. I'm pretty sure I won this argument 3 years ago but whateves. Just want you to know there will be no bad blood between us this weekend. I'm mature now.


 Heart, Max






Well, here's my response to that, Gluteus Maximus.




Dear Max,


Everyone from New York knows that when people talk about visiting New York they never mean Long Island. That's just the vestigial tail of New York.  Oh, what's up? You don't know the word "Vestigial"? Why? Because you go to some kind of dumb kids school? Some sort of dummies' schoo....


I've just been informed that you're in Kindergarten.  Because you're only six.  I take it back.  I bet you're head of the class in naps and dinosaur recognition.  I would never impugn the name of Kindergarten.


But you're still only six.  You can't vote.  You can't buy dynamite.  You couldn't be President even if you passed the Presidential Candidate test.  Which is hard. And mostly consists of questions like: 1) Should a President always be rich?  2) Is Vermont technically a state? 


Here's a hint.  Number 2 is no.  It's a suburb of New Hampshire.


See? I'm off topic. Because you drive me crazy!  I'm soooo glad that you're still best friends with Jack. It doesn't bother me at all.  Oh wait. That's sarcasm.  You don't get it because that's a higher brain function.  You need to eat something more complicated than mac n cheese to grow those kind of synapses.  You need to cut up some hot dogs in there, bro!


Let's review things you can do for Jack.  Buy him a matchbox car.  Well, isn't that special?  Because I can buy him a real car.  And I'll let him drive it, too.  Because I'm an ADULT.  And I'm IRRESPONSIBLE. And I will totally LIE TO HIS PARENTS ABOUT WHY WE WE'RE GOING TO THE ABANDONED STATE FAIR PARKING LOT.


It's so he can drive.  Did you put that together?  No? Is it because it's called Deductive Reasoning, Max? Can you say that?  Hold on. I've just been informed that six year olds can actually talk and say complex words fairly easily.


Fine, Max.  You're not going to win.  I'm an adult.  I'm superior.  I can run for mayor of your town and pass laws that all kids named Max have to change their names to even dumber names.  Like Snakebutt. And Barnaclepants.  I will do that, Max.  I will move to your town and start an aggressive campaign to be mayor.  Just to pass silly laws that hurt you.


Stay way from Jack.  Write him a letter post-haste explaining how you hate him now.  Tell him you're best friends with a girl now.  That'll show him.  And I'll scoop in with the used Nissan Sentra I bought him. Red. With battle damage.  From a really cool accident.


Suck it, Max.  I hope you cry.  Like a six year old baby.  And I've just been informed that six year olds have tear glands so you physically are able.




I'm happiest when you're sad,


James Best

Day 21 - Internet Cafes and Letters to the Future

I'm back at the internet cafe. My time is running out. A bagel bought me two hours. And this poem needed a lot of editing. It's the third in the Letter to Me series. It may or may not need informing from the others. Not sure. Hard to separate sometimes.

A buck just walked down the sidewalk near the cafe. Crazy. This place is wild. I'm going to ride my pet bear home now. I'll put up some pictures tomorrow. The internet is just so slow I can't tell whether or not it can handle it. Lates.

Letter #3: Change

To an Older Me,

Even as I write this, I can feel the future you
pulling away, deciding to be.
There’s a smile in me I’m trying out,
a world be damned sort of grin.
I see it in the mirror some mornings,
sneaking out, giving me an almost handsome tilt.
Don’t laugh.

By now, you have sold my skin.
Your fingers look like strangers.
My face on you is stretched into something new,
even carefree. I feel it coming.

Two days ago, I biked down Milham Road
and ran into one of three Jessicas from class.
And she waylaid me, joked with me, frightened me
into hours of pointless forgetfulness.
I never got one broody word written.

I said don’t laugh.
If my pen cannot be a spear, what is it?
If I am not me in the future, who are you?

This is only vision I’ve had of us:
propped near some lake, clear as dreams,
mountains around, loons and deer,
a waterfall fogs a white noise through the air.
In our hands, a journal and pen.
Beauty surrounding, we’re still looking at paper.
Your face is young and uncreased by living ,
your eyes are still grey but steel now,
absent of heat, more like a door shut.
I am not gone. Just locked away.

I get why we became you.
Forgiveness is not easy, it’s just lighter.

Still,
You