I grew up in a semi. Was potty-trained,

I grew up in a semi. Was potty-trained, learned to read, and even how to gamble before I was three. It was a good life. It was a hard life. It was the only life I knew. And the

ragtag band of truckers was my family, the only family I'd ever known. By age eleven, I was becoming adept in the tools of the trucking trade. The road was rough & the skills I'd

forgotten were much needed. Now I'm 49 and forgot everything I'd learned. I just sort of puff around munching Doritos and drinking Diet Mountain Dew.

It's a rather good life, I must say. I sit on the park bench all day watching people, making observations about human nature. I just might write a book one day. I'd title it

"My Life on the Bench." I would put a photo of a crack in the sidewalk on the cover. The park bench was where I listened to talk about hurt and wasted dreams. Those stories needed

an unexpected plot twist desperately, but there was some good raw material in them that could be mined and forged into something more ambitious. I grew fond of the park bench, even

though it left rusty slat marks and occasional pigeon poop on my backside, whether I was wearing pants or not. The day the park bench pigeon poop changed my life, I had sat down

wearing no pants. It must have been one of those greyish white pigeon poops with a black flourish at the center judging from the consistency. I slid & fell just as Larry Gagosian

Exploded like a pack of gushers at the huge force behind the blow. All the blood that went everywhere made me nauseous, yet I was so stunned, I could hardly breathe, let alone barf