Bird shit came in through the window today, which was something new to me. My neighbor was across the street on her lawn. If you fall and survive, she yelled up to her roof, I’ll kill you. Why do so many books have houses on their covers these days? Are these the character’s houses? I used to think as I rode my bike around my dusky neighborhood: So many stories in those windows, and I’ll never know them. I’m just kidding. I never rode my bike. I lit matches in my front yard. I like things I can recognize in death, like blood, or lobsters. Just once I’d like to hear a story where the celebrity isn’t “down to earth.” I told you about the missing kid in the store. Not the lost kid, that happens all the time. This missing kid had triggered some deep alarms, whole cities were alerted about this guy, and here he comes strolling through Men’s Outerwear. I didn’t say anything but Trevor, of course, called in the cavalry. The kid was buying some pants and next thing you know the store is lit up like a summer circus. It reminded me of that night in bed when you pinched me and woke yourself up. I know I demand a lot out of my towels. If the first thing I ever had to do was break out of an egg, well, things would be different. I just heard a noise in the kitchen. Sometimes, sometimes, when I’m in the whole I-didn’t-think-I’d-live-this-long frame of mind, I wish I’d get kidnapped.
Alexander Buck Slater is a literary agent in New York City. His education was purchased at the University of Connecticut.