Birthday Boy from Seattle
Forty-seven means I can now say that I’m in my late forties, but do I also get to say I’m pushing fifty?
I spent that night like I always spent, walking to Ballard this time, and the whole time going I was marveling to myself, “I’m twenty-one years old…” Carefully walking the outside edge of a stretch of railroad tracks; stopping to look at mannequins in a department store window and attempting to outstare them; coming across a pin-up of the enigmatic Michael Jackson, and trying to outstare him as well. Sitting off the side of the road at the halfway point of my walk, blandly watching the comings and goings at the nearby Seven-Eleven.
I thought while I sat there that maybe I’d buy a beer. What else were you supposed to do on your twenty-first birthday but buy alcohol? But I didn’t really want to do that. I fancied myself to have wanted to remain fully conscious all the days of my life thus far, and if ever there was a day when I wanted to remain aware, this one was it.
Way the hell down to the waterfront, and after that short sitting, I took the long walk home.
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