I understand about the world of inanimate objects. A sock monkey is a friend of mine. I understand the term age appropriate. Mom tells me that it’s understanding the limits of my mind that keeps me in the basement.
My name is Morgan. As for my last name, shit, I had dozens of them. Make up one. Amuse yourself. Some members of the press know me as Morgan the Cunt-knife. I'm sure you've seen me on TV, in the newspapers. You probably have a friend of a friend who's liked me on Facebook.
The boy showed up at the side of her ice cream truck wearing a fedora (probably his grandfather's) and a beige leisure suit stretched tight across his pudgy belly.
Before weekend visits with our father, my mother would give me or my sister something of his, something that he didn’t need or want, and then she’d leave for the day.
A black bear cub sat eating cereal on the kitchen floor. The woman had never seen this bear cub before. The Cheerios box was split open, little o’s scattered everywhere. “Oh,” she said. “A bear. A very cute bear.” The bear paused for a moment as if it knew it was a very cute bear. She got the broom and started to sweep the cereal into a pile. The bear watched her while it ate.
She asked me if I could help out with a friend of hers. He had problems with alcohol, women, and drugs. I already knew about the women, because every pretty girl in town seemed to have slept with him.
I don’t know what happened at the ice cream parlor after I left, but later that day while I put a load of sheets and towels into the Maytag at Mount-Wash-More, Soldier Boy watched me, leaning against a dryer, talking into his wrist-watch.
I am in the boss's cabin listening to him, and suddenly I feel my face flee. It is as if it is drifting sideways, toward the wall, or toward the translucent board that is riveted to the wall for scribbling thoughts.