We’ve accumulated so much stuff, our cars barely fit in the garage. So it was reassuring when I house-sat for friends and discovered their basement filled with junk.

I figured a little more wouldn’t hurt.

I started with an old rug the trash people wouldn’t take. Some wood blinds were next. Then I got carried away: a broken lawn chair, encyclopedias (look it up, kids). A metal Kokopelli got me caught.

“Didn’t this used to hang at your house?”

“I’m giving it to you in case you need it.”

I’m not allowed to house-sit anymore. So tonight, I’m breaking in.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

One Saturday, five street urchins “borrowed” a small boat on Blue Lagoon near Miami’s airport.

It was built for two and capsized.

We swam to shore thinking, “Alligator! Alligator! Alligator!” with every panicked stroke.

Near some hyacinths, a large body moved beneath me; I froze.

A thousand-pound potato surfaced and shoved its gray, whiskered face three inches from mine. It smelled like cabbage.

It dove, and I started breathing again.

From then on, we swam with them, plunging and gliding.

And when we did, even though we were still surrounded by highways, buildings, and smog, we weren’t street urchins anymore.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

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I stuck a “Student Driver” magnet on the back of my brother-in-law’s eighteen-wheeler, thinking he’d laugh and take it off. But it was still there when he returned a week later from a trip.

I started to remove my failed joke, but he stopped me.

He told me he didn’t see the magnet for three states. “Cars didn’t cut me off, a dozen people honked and gave me a thumbs up… at one stop, another driver said, ‘You’re doing great!’ I felt like a superstar.”

It’s still on his truck reminding me of an important life lesson—keep expectations low.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

I visited my friend on Long Island in January.

We took the train into Manhattan and stayed out later than two married guys should.

When we got back to the station, it was 3 AM and 7 degrees. The car doors were frozen shut.

“I c-can’t f-f-feel my l-l-legs.” I pointed out.

“I’m not waking her up.”

He preferred death. I understood.

We were peeing on a door seam to thaw it out when a cop drove up.

His loudspeaker blasted, “What are ya doin’?”

My friend pointed to the car. “Red Sox fan!”

The cop nodded and drove away.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

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We went to a client’s house for dinner, and it was as stiff and awkward as you’d expect.

“This pot roast is delicious.”

“It’s beef bourguignon.”

“Oh. Sure has rained a lot lately.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Until I said, “I love your house. When was it built?”

“1875.”

The evening brightened.

We got a tour with details about the heart-pine floors, 14-foot ceilings, tall windows, and fireplaces that adorned every room.

We joked about ghosts, marriage, and contractors.

In their bedroom, they showed us lime plaster walls where they’d hung photos of themselves. Nude.

We talked about the weather after that.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

We were three broke college guys renting a room from an old woman who yelled and threw things at us.

One night, she woke us at 1 AM.

“My niece is moving in tomorrow. I want you out tonight.”

Shaking the fogginess, we tried to reason, but she said, “Leave now,” adding, “or I’ll call the police.”

She held the phone, threatening, while we stuffed everything into my crappy Chevette. Nowhere to go, I drove off at 2 MPH while my friends sleep-walked next to the car.

It’s been 40 years, and I can laugh now. Mostly because she’s dead.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

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A woman we know owns a huge, beautiful home, but how she affords it is a mystery. Every explanation of her job confuses us more.

“It’s a family import business.”

One night over drinks, we talked about traveling. She giggled as she recalled the time she was kidnapped in Colombia like she was talking about a vacation.

We interrupted, “Did you say you were kidnapped?”

“I mentioned my family, and they let me go.”

“Wait, you were kidnapped… then released just like that?”

She sipped her wine and shrugged. “It was a misunderstanding.”

We don’t ask what she does anymore.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

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I was home on break to hang with friends. But Mom said, “Go see her. She misses you.”

“Fine. But I’m just saying hi, then leaving.”

She serves sweet tea, emphasis on “sweet.” Her place, a trinket trove, smells thick of lavender. Her walls are covered with store-bought prints and signs, “Think positive!” A polyester throw on her rose-colored couch has drawings of ice cream pops. On the coffee table sits a blue, leaf-shaped dish cradling hard mint candies a decade old.

She zipped around, chirping her high-pitched Spanglish, then looked at me hopefully.

“Want some tea?”

“I’d love some.”

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

I called my friend an irresponsible pet owner and questioned her ability to do anything.

I might have called her ugly and stupid, too.

All I actually said was, “Your kitty’s grown.” She inferred the rest.

A mutual friend said she’s upset that I called her cat “fat.”

I didn’t. She’s just oversensitive.

And apparently, she thinks I don’t know how to communicate. Or that I’m crass.

So, I didn’t grow up in fancy Scarsdale. Or like she says, “SKAAAAARZ-dayle.” Like it’s so important it deserves extra syllables.

What do I care?

She’s stupid anyway. And her cat is fat.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

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When I was in college, there was a protest against Jerry Falwell. I didn’t know who he was at first, but a girl I liked did.

I made a sign that said: “Nuke a gay whale for Christ!”

She laughed. We dated.

I told that story to friends recently, and someone said, “That’s terrible.”

Someone else said, “No. That’s dating.”

Then everyone started sharing lines from their dating lives: “I love professional wrestling, too!” and “You collect thimbles? That’s so cool!”

Fortunately, you can stop pretending once you get married. Gotta go. Bridget Jones’ Diary is starting. Love that movie.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

I know a gambler who brims with a gambler’s optimism. When losing, he rolls and thinks, “Come on! I’m due!” When winning, “I’m on a roll!” Either way, he keeps going, wide-eyed and wishful.

I considered him a lousy provider for his family and a leech who owed people money.

Then, I went through a crisis where I saw no way out and felt bad about myself and my future. He kept calling, saying things like, “You’ve got this,” and “This is your moment. I know it,” like he was at a craps table, only he was betting on me.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

Sloths, toucans, howler monkeys, resplendent quetzals, cloud forests, La Fortuna Waterfall... you can’t go far in Costa Rica without saying, “wow.”

Ready to see everything, I hopped into a taxi. What I saw first was that my driver had only one arm.

He shifted gears by taking his hand off the steering wheel, then whipping it back to straighten the car. We weaved on narrow mountain roads with steep drops, alternating between heading straight for a cliff or the side of a mountain. Then we got a flat, and he changed the tire on a slope in the rain.

Wow.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

I was 14 when John Lennon died. I didn’t know who he was.

After you recover from that, here’s another: the same goes for Kurt Cobain. I knew their music but felt no personal connection to them. Oh, I commiserated with friends. I’m not a monster.

I get that music seeps into our souls. A song can bring back a time, a place, a powerful feeling that connects to the person who created it. But I never understood the tributes people post when a musician dies. Until Todd Snider died.

You’re probably asking, “Who?”

Now you know how I feel.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

I got rear-ended on the highway again (Atlanta). I wasn’t hurt because traffic was barely moving (Atlanta). The car that hit me was also rear-ended.

We pulled to the side of the highway.

“You alright?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”

The woman in the middle of the collision sandwich stared at her damaged rear bumper, then at the new Lexus that hit her.

She looked up to the sky, then dialed her phone.

“I already reported it,” I said.

“I’m calling a lawyer.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Maybe.”

One of the six injury attorneys above us on billboards would give her the answer.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

Boats sped past as I kayaked. More accurately, as I swam next to my kayak.

It had been years since I’d used it, and the wake from my fellow Memorial Day celebrants wasn’t helping me stay above water.

I’d hear their engines coming, pause to ride out the waves, then ploop.

After the nth time of heaving the waterlogged kayak onto someone’s dock to empty it, I decided, “Screw it, I’m paddling until I get there or until I capsize again.”

I didn’t capsize.

The lesson is to keep paddling through the rough parts.

And maybe try other water sports.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

My therapist helps me sort my jumbled junk drawer of a brain. I unload, he sits quietly, then observes, “Listen to how you just said that.” And shows me that I already know the answer.

Recently, I saw him because someone asked me to keep a secret. They suffered an injustice, and I want it known.

He interrupted, “Keep the secret.”

“You haven’t heard my side.”

“It’s not your story to tell.”

“But it’s killing me.”

He smiled and said, “Tough titties.”

“What kind of therapist says that? So, I just keep it inside?”

He nodded.

I already knew that.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

A few feet in front of me, she faces the ocean and wiggles her shoulders to no music.

She points left with both hands, plants them on her hips, then points to the right. She spreads her arms, runs to the surf, then runs back.

The whole time, she mouths a conversation only she and the water can hear.

But I understand it. She’s saying, “I’M AT THE BEACH! I’M AT THE BEACH!”

“Ruthie!”

Her mom yells at her to stop bothering people.

The girl freezes.

Mom looks at me. “Sorry if she’s blocking your view.”

She was the view.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

I still play in the ocean like when I was a kid, body surfing on waves and doing my best Aquaman. That day, I dove and glided like a frisky dolphin.

The only other people in the water were a young couple in the distance, their bodies and lips entwined in young coupleness.  

I tumbled around until a big swell lifted and slammed me into the passionate pair. Uh-oh, I thought and braced myself for a testosterone-filled confrontation with this guy. 

He grabbed my arm and asked, “Are you okay, sir?” Genuinely concerned.

That’s when I realized, Oh, I’m old.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris

We’d been out, indulging. The rideshare app sent us a Waymo, and we stumbled into the backseat.

“These windows are super tinted.”

“I noticed.”

We kissed. Hands explored. We started... indulging.

Until the Waymo slammed on the brakes and threw us against the front seats. Lights flashed, and it yelled, “Stop! Sexual harassment!”

I forgot how to breathe.

A woman’s voice came from the speaker. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

“Yes. We were just…”

“I’m checking the video.” (Big sigh) “Folks, please wait until you get home.”

“Video cameras???”

“Yes. This ride has been recorded.”

“Whoa.”

“Can we get a copy?”

Illustration by Steve Spetseris.

Title and creative spark by Troy King

I got mad when they made it legal to hunt neighborhood deer with a crossbow. They don’t run; they’re used to us .

They’re gentle, too. I’ve watched them nibbling leaves at the park, and I’ll tell whoever’s nearby, “shh look, deer.”

They were in my neighbor’s yard the other night. They had treated his garden like a buffet and ate everything except the winter Daphnes, which are poisonous. Those they trampled .

My back ached as I looked over at my new garden; the empty fifty-pound bags of compost, fertilizer, and mulch, the dirty shovel and pickaxe, and thought,

Hmm, crossbow.

Illustration by Steve Spetseris