Summers in 4th grade I’d often go blueberry picking with my grandparents in Henniker, New Hampshire, and we were like our own little Swiss Family Robinson, living off the land. We’d park at the bottom of the farm, and then walk up to the top of it so after picking we could just pay for our pails and get in the car and hit it back to Concord, where we’d usually stop at the bookstore or toy store. With my purple-stained fingers, I’d mostly grab a new field guide to add to my collection, or the new Stephen King Horror or Terry Brooks Fantasy, maybe a new Smurf, if they had one that reflected my current rebellion or wish to exfiltrate myself like a spy. And when we got back to their apartment it was either hit the garden with Grandpa until we were a commercial for the Home and Garden Network, or draw and read and play games with Gram until I was perfect just the way I was, a version of King Friday. When it came time our parents got home from work, around 3, I’d usually hit the complex pool for a few minutes as some last-ditch effort to pin a red bow on the day. There, I remember, I’d brave the scrotums of old men oozing out the legs of their shorts like leach-like aliens out of the back alleys of horror movies, while I farted bubbles from the deep end like The Creature from the Black Lagoon. After that movie, with my shoes off, I’d walk through the desolate parking lots leading to the field that connected our two housing developments like an artery, hoping nobody jumped me and made me mad enough to either turn green and rip them in half, or light someone’s hair on fire with my tantrum. I’d cut through the tapeworm infested gulley and spill back out onto the road and walk down the street to home, where upon entering I’d b-line it for my bedroom so that I could crank Iron Maiden’s Number of the Beast on the tape recorder, and stare at a poster of Farrah Fawcett until my bed became the Ferrari she was straddling, and I was off again, this time to the beach, my silk scarf practically choking me in the wind, my aviators reflecting the palms, and behind them along the coast line all Yachts lounging with their feet up like my father in his recliner with his nightly Screwdriver, or the night watchmen who falls asleep and doesn’t realize a dark and ancient force has entered the top-secret building in search of an ancient secret, that, if acquired by the dark one, can keep him awake for good.