When we moved to Mason Street, a neighbor introduced himself to my father as a registered sex offender. I don’t know what he did. My father never told me. On Halloween, the law required him to keep the lights off at his house. He waited in a church basement with other sex offenders for hours until children finished trick-or-treating while his wife waited in the dark at their house.
He repaired lawn mowers in his garage. I watched him. I threw frisbees into his yard while he repaired the lawn mowers. He never looked at me or the frisbees. I threw footballs on his roof. I walked around without a shirt in the spring, summer, and fall. He never noticed the footballs or me. I don’t know what he did, but I wanted to know if he’d think about doing whatever he did to me. I wanted to know if I’d be worth it to him, or maybe someone like him. I just wanted a stare. At the time, I didn’t trust my reflection in mirrors.
Swimming to Cambodia