238 - Backyard


You are three (and a half!) years old and your parents have decided you are Big Enough to play in the junk-riddled back yard because Really Margaret What Is The Worst That Could Happen.

You take spills over rotting tires and bounce carelessly off of steel frames, repeatedly coming within inches of splitting your tiny head open because There Is A Lot Of Dangerous Shit Back There And He Could Get Hurt, Jonathan, but you don’t, and maybe a little bit of it is because Margaret You’re Just Overreacting Like You Always Do but also maybe not.

An engine intake manifold catches your eye and you decide it is some sort of fun alien thingy because He’s Really Creative For His Age And The Junkyard Could Be Stimulating For Him. You put your mouth over the port and blow to little effect; you then try sucking because Yeah, Jonathan, But We Also Have To Admit He’s Not The Brightest Kid Around.

You return to the back porch with minor bumps and bruises and a black, greasy ring around your mouth. Mom gasps, Dad laughs, and your older sister wonders Why The Fuck He Gets To Do Whatever He Wants.