There once was a boy. He was my age, my height, weight, had the same hair color, eye color, name, shoes, clothes, mannerisms, and enjoyed using q-tips and cutting his nails, as I do. But he wasn't me. He was someone else.
He went left his house one morning and went for a walk around the neighborhood. It was quite like my neighborhood at home, except for one large difference. The front doors to all of the houses were in the back of the house, so you couldn't see them as you walked down the normal and average sidewalk. In fact, now that I think about it, that is not such a large difference. The street was the same, as were the cars parked on the street, the location of the yellow fire hydrant, the trees, the mailboxes. On this walk, which was underneath a sky with few clouds, a few normal-sounding dogs barked. A little girl played on her tricycle and rang the bell on the handle a few times, which made this boy smile softly. He rounded the cul-de-sac and hiked back up towards his house and the main road.
He then came upon an old aquaintance of his. Their conversation went something like this:
Old Aquaintance: Hey! It's been so long! How's it going?
Boy: It's going alright.
And so on and so forth. They parted, the old acquaintance making his way down the street, and our subject, the boy, trekking upwards.
This path lead him to the main street, where traffic was bustling and the traffic lights were slowly blinking their three eyes. There was a small median in the middle of the street.
Our boy looked both ways, as he was taught to do, and made his way to the median. He stood casually on the median, not looking concerned about the oncoming traffic, coming both ways at him now, and not looking overly excited to be in the middle of such a busy street. Once he felt comfortable, he took off his grey sweatshirt, revealing a red t-shirt. He folded up the sweatshirt, placed it on the median, and then himself sat in the Indian style. He then stretched his arms upwards and then crossed them behind his back coming down. He then laid down horizontally, put his head softly onto the sweatshirt, and fell into a slight sleep.
He dreamt. In the dream, he was driving at night. It was hard to tell what street it was. He passed a traffic light, which had stopped blinking its three eyes and had apparantly gone to sleep, as all three of the eyes were black. He laughed that such a thing was possible, and when he returned his gaze to the road, right in front of him was a sleep-deprived looking boy wrapped in a sleeping bag. He was going 60 miles per hour. There was a thump. The driving boy closed his eyes. When he opened them, with his car still going 60 miles per hour, the sleep-deprived boy was sitting in the passenger seat next to him. "What the hell happened? You can't just stand in the middle of the street like that!" the driving boy screamed. "And for that matter, how did you end up in this car?"
The sleep-deprived looking boy laughed lightly, and then pointed his finger to the back two seats. The driving boy looked in he rear view mirror and saw two more of the sleep-deprived looking boys, their heads against the windows, sleeping soundly. The driving boy's heart jumped, and when he returned to look at the road ahead, and saw he was surrounded on all sides of the car by these messy haired, sleeping bag-covered boys, he woke up.
He woke up sweaty and sore. It must have been just past dawn, as the traffic was sparse and the cold air felt fresh. He gathered up his sweatshirt and crossed the street, and made his way back to the house.
He walked up to the back door, which was the front door, mind you. He entered and went to lie down on the green leather couch in the living room. He laid down and closed his eyes, letting his arms fall. His right hand went off the couch and felt a soft cloth on the floor. He grabbed it, and pulled it over his eyes. He stared into the darkness of the sleeping bag and wondered where, in fact, that car was going, and if, in fact, the driver of the car knew how much he envied him.
