The Carrying On of A Wayward Son

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a Ghostbuster.

I began training for my life as Batman at an early age.

Riding high off of the release of the second movie and the wonderful “Real Ghostbusters” cartoon that was airing on Saturday morning television at the time, I was obsessed with all things ghostly. I would go to the library at least once a week to check out a new book on monsters, taking copious notes about the type of beasties I would be up against in my new job.

I formed clubs with my friends at my school dedicated to the furthering of arcane knowledge. During lunch, we would sit on the jungle gym set and discuss the types of ways one might become a werewolf or practice our séance skills.

Eventually, I acquired an authentic Ghostbuster jumpsuit, a neighbor agreed to lend me his replica Proton Pack and containment unit if I asked, and I now possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of supernatural creatures. The only thing standing in my way was the complete lack of ghosts in my neighborhood.

My career goals have always been a bit lofty. As a kid, I was unhampered by reality when choosing a profession. A few years after my flirtation with ghostbusting, I decided I wanted to become a vigilante like Batman. I didn’t have the athletic skill or the patience to train and hone my body to become an unstoppable crime-fighting machine so I did the next best thing — I designed a killer costume.

Taking arm pads I had bought for football (the fact that I only played football in 7^th and 8^th grade should give you a sad idea of how old I was at this time), a homemade ski mask, cameo pants and my favorite t-shirt, I was almost done with my homemade vigilante costume. I was only missing a few ingredients. First, I needed a trademark — some kind of distinguishing feature that would become my calling card. Looking around my room, I settled on an African Safari hat my grandparents had given me as a gift. The final piece of my costume puzzle was technology. I grabbed a broken walkie-talkie and duct taped to my leg. Next I wrapped myself in a quasi-translucent white poncho. Why the poncho? In case it rained while I was fighting crime. Plus, I imagined that, when wrapped in the raincoat, I became translucent myself — kind of like the Predator.

So, decked in my vigilante costume, I prowled my neighborhood looking for criminals to bust. Back then; the street I lived on was still being developed. There were a lot of empty lots full of dirt and construction material. As I darted from wooden pylon to wooden pylon, hiding behind giant piles of grass still unplanted, I stalked my friend OJ.

Meanwhile, OJ saw me spazzing out in an abandoned lot dressed like a crazy homeless person and decided to see what I was up to. Surprised at being discovered despite my cloaking technology, I took a page from the Bible of Batman and decided to throw a smoke bomb. Not having any smoke bombs, I instead grabbed a handful of grass and threw it on the ground to distract from my exit. OJ took this as an invitation to a grass war and soon we had begun throwing handfuls of sod at each other. Our behavior drew the attention of an elderly gentleman who lived across the street. He poked his head out of his door and yelled at us to stop our shenanigans. We were creating a mess with all the grass and were nothing but common criminals, he shouted.

Surprised at being yelled at by an old man, I beat a hasty retreat back to my house before a real crimefighter showed up to bust me.