I’ve never dreamed of knights and castles before, so it must be that cassette tape of new age Celtic music that my stepmother Laura left on repeat. And as I look at Jessica, I realize that it is a girl named Jessica that I went to elementary school with.

Jessica had very recently called my father and stepmother’s apartment after trying every Kennedy in the Baltimore Metropolitan area phonebook, and reunited with me after 6 years. I guess I left quite an impression at 7 years old. After that phone reunion, I guess she was on my mind because I assigned her the female lead in my fantasy dream. Only I had no idea what she looked like these days, so her face is that of the 7 year old girl I used to like so much.

And now I am creeped out.

Was I really about to kiss a 7 year old? No, it’s just a dream. Just then an alarm rings out!

I awake to a high pitched alarm, followed by my 3 year old little brother Gabriel screaming, “Fire! Fire!”

Groggy, I sit up on the couch and when I open my eyes there is smoke in the air. Laura, who is lying on the floor, after sleeping there because of recent severe back pain, can’t get up fast enough, so she yells out, “Ben! Do something!”

I jump up and start running. And as the smoke detector rings out, and the new age Celtic music is playing on the stereo speakers, I still feel like I’m dreaming. I realize I am not after I run around the corner into the kitchen, and feel the heat of fire on my legs as a copy of little Cable TV guide is on fire in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I’m scared out of my mind as I think of a course of action. Sure, I was in Jr. Firemen in Baltimore Highlands, but that was when I was 10, and I only joined because my best friend and next door neighbor Brian did, and when he left so did I. I never even got to go into the fire simulator. Alright Ben, think. I could stomp it out! But I’m wearing socks, so that’s probably not a good idea. In my panicked mind, the only thing I could think to do is turn on the kitchen sink, cup my hands under the water and throw the handfuls onto the burning paper. After three handfuls, I decide to grab a dirty cup out of the sink, fill it up, and dump it on the floor. Success! A longer than necessary way to get there, but success!

Just then Gabriel yells again, “Fire! Fire!” I turn around to tell him that I had put the fire out, when I see his panic stricken face looking behind me. I turn around and find a carton of eggs on the counter, a clear plastic cup with a beach print sitting on the ignited burner of the stove, flames dancing up the sides of the plastic cup, and at the bottom of the plastic beach print cup, a perfectly cracked egg.

I get it! He was trying to make himself breakfast! And I have to admit I was impressed with his egg cracking skills. I was about to turn around and compliment him, but I thought it probably not a good idea to make a positive out of almost setting the apartment on fire. Speaking of the fire, I should probably get back to putting it out! I grab the side of the flaming plastic beach cup and fling it into the sink, and then I grab the sprayer and hose it down. The sprayer! Dammit! I should have used that on the Cable TV guide! Then I reach over, and nonchalantly turn the burner off.

I know that there was probably a million different ways to have handled that situation, but to my defense, I was a 13 year old who was dreaming about being a knight who was about to kiss my 2nd grade crush, and then I was a real life fireman within a minute of waking up. You try switching gears like that.

Now as for Gabriel, it turns out he indeed was trying to make himself breakfast. He had put the cup on the burner, got the eggs out, and cracked one into the cup. And as Laura and I were reprimanding him, it still took all I had not to compliment his 3 year old skills at egg cracking. Honestly, there was no shell in it or anything! So after his perfect egg cracking, he turned the burner on, and waited for his breakfast to cook. When flames began to dance up the side of the cup, he decided to do what he had seen our father do before, and place a lid on it. His choice of lid was a copy of the Cable TV guide.

Yes, the Cable TV guide, not the TV Guide. The Cable TV guide was a flimsy little booklet, no more than 10 pages, that you got from the grocery store or your cable provider mailed them to you. I still see them in hotels from time to time when I travel for comedy shows. Now, TV Guide was this thick book that looked like a bible in comparison. It had some weight to it, and a coated front and back page. It wouldn’t have stopped the fire, but it might’ve bought you more time. That Cable TV guide; that tiny booklet, and it’s nearly see-through suggestion of paper, was truly nothing more than 5 in. x 5 in. match head. Gabriel might have done better with a paper towel.

And luckily, no one was hurt, and the floor tiles didn’t even get damaged. The stove knobs however would be removed, and from then on out if you wanted to cook something, you had to grab a knob from the back of the stove.

I remember saying to Gabriel, “If you want to eat, you wake us up, you understand.” But he never had to wake us up to cook before. If he wanted something to eat, he would wait until Dad woke up. Dad was an amazing cook who always cooked breakfast for us on the weekends. But Dad wasn’t there. Our father had been recently jailed in Annapolis, for the failure of the payment of child support for my sister and I.

I, now the father of a 3 year old, am starting to notice my son Benjamin doing things on his own more and more. Part of it is establishing his independence, part of it is his impatience, and part of it is simply because he can. Or because he thinks he can.

Watching Benjamin enter this phase of his life, I now realize that Gabriel was just stepping up in Dad’s absence. And after coming to that realization, I truly felt sad for Gabriel, and what might have been going on his little mind, waking up on Saturday, no Dad to be found. But soon enough, my sadness gave way to admiration. I didn’t admire the fact that he nearly put an entire building of residents in the homeless category; I admired the fact that at 3 years old, he was prepared to step up and resume the duties of a grown man. And I could tell he was deliberately trying to do a good job, hence the perfectly cracked egg.

And that was more than I was prepared to do at 13. For breakfast that morning, I just ate the leftover white pizza in the fridge from my stepmother Laura’s part-time Domino’s job.

I was reminded of this event in my past as I continue to see, daily, my son’s new found determination and independence over certain things in his little life. At the same time, I hope and pray that my son continues to do things because he wants to, and never because he feels that he has too.

And if he should ever find himself dealing with a small kitchen fire, let’s hope he uses something better than a Cable TV guide to put it out. Like maybe an actual metal lid, or better yet, a fire extinguisher. Or even better yet, one of his mother’s cats.

Lucky us! What ever will we do with all of that extra time? You’ll run your ass off, that’s what. Any public displays of affection or any cigarette breaks would ensure you would be late. But for those who didn’t care about lateness, they could be seen slamming their girl/boyfriend against a wall, or grabbing a cigarette in the back parking lot or a bathroom, or even sneaking in a quick fight.

And that is exactly what happened one day while on my way into the Industrial Arts building sophomore year. I’m running to drafting class, ready to put some walls up in my ¼ inch scale model I’m building of the one level Harundale ranch style house my family rents, when I notice a group of three boys shoving another boy down the hallway.

I didn’t know anybody involved in skirmish personally, so I decide to keep on walking.

The aggressors were your typical Glen Burnie “Yo boys”, complete with backwards hats and Starter jackets on. Alone, not a one of them were the least bit intimidating or threatening, but if you put three of them together, then they, well, still weren’t intimidating. And their victim seemed to be ignoring them the best he could.

The Vic was your typical quiet nerdy type, complete with Napoleon Dynamite style glasses, or “birth controls” as we called them, because there was no chance you were getting laid wearing glasses like those. There was one exception to the Napoleon Dynamite image however; this guy had a rock and roll edge. He was decked out in a tour t-shirt of some band like Slayer or Pantera, he wore tight dark gray stonewash jeans, and those shoes. To this day I’ll never forget those shoes. They were black high tops, the K-Mart special kind with laces and Velcro, and though they were tennis shoes, they looked like moon boots. Maybe the reason why I remember those shoes wasn’t because of the style, but what they did next.

As soon as the fight approaches me, Rock Boots turns around with a roundhouse kick, striking the middle of the three boys in the side, but not knocking him over. I guess those shoes just looked like boots, and they must’ve had no weight to them, or he was just a weak kicker. Now all three boys have stopped in their tracks, and at this point, I have as well.

Then Rock Boots points at the boy in the face, and utters a phrase I’ll never forget for the rest of my life. He said, “You’re messin’ with a top notch killa.”

Now this was worth being late for! I’d never met a “top notch killa” before, let alone seen one in action, so this could be good. This could be the day the power balance shifts at GBHS! Yo boys will begin to think twice about picking on nerds, never quite sure if they are messing with a “top notch killa” or not. Come on Rock Boots; show them what’s up, “top notch killa” style!

That’s when Rock Boots turns around, and walks away. What happened? Maybe Rock Boots figured they weren’t worth his signature attack, or maybe he knew that if he proceeded with the taking apart of three little Yo boys he would only draw attention to himself, blowing his cover and in turn bringing retaliation from the families of those he has killed in his top notch fashion.

Whatever his reason, when he walked away, he left the boys dumbfounded. I remember thinking, “They probably don’t know how close to death they actually were. They should probably run to the pay phone and call some loved ones and stop and appreciate their next and every breath.”

As Rock Boots makes his way to the door to exit the Industrial Arts building, the three boys share a quick chuckle and a look of amazement, before yelling, “Get that mother–!” They then proceed to push Rock Boots through the door and out onto the ground of the courtyard, stomping him out like a flaming bag of poo on Moving Night.

I shake my head, and get inside of my Drafting class 30 seconds late, luckily with no repercussion. And as I settle in with my model and begin to glue down the walls that make up the closet by the front door, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed over what went down only moments ago.

What happened? He was a “top notch killa”, or so he said. And since he obviously wasn’t, then what in the world would compel Rock Boots to strike first? He was mere seconds from the exit, and once he made it into the courtyard, he more than likely would’ve just been left alone, or administrators would have been around to intervene. But instead, he turns around, delivers and lands a roundhouse kick that has absolutely no effect, and then issues one hell of a warning. It was the warning heard ‘round the world. Or at least the warning heard ‘round the corner of the hallway in Industrial Arts.

Did he figure it was worth a shot? Had such a warning ever really worked before in his life, making him sure it would work again? Maybe the “Your messin’ with a top notch killa” was to be followed with, “of opponents using Liu Kang in Mortal Kombat for the Sega Genesis.” but at the last second he realized that the Yo boys weren’t the video gamer type.

I was left with so many questions, but sadly, I knew one thing: Rock Boots’ kick and warning combo made sure that his possible beat down would become an inevitable beat down.

And me, I would be left to tell the story of what might have been, what could have been, and what never was. In just under one minute, I had witnessed the rise and fall of a “top notch killa”.

Three bowls of bran flakes for a health conscious late night snack can make for a really, really bad next morning.

As I grabbed the door, another kid that I couldn’t see on the other side of the cubbyhole wall said, “Bye Daddy!”

I said, “Bye confused little one!”

The popular math equation in the halls of my alma mater was to take the guy’s shoe size and divide it by half, and viola! Divide it by half? Well let’s see, I wore a size 11 shoe when I was 11, and have worn a size 14 since I was 14, so you know what that means…

Yeah, I wish.

But my shoe size is also a wide. So when the girls would giggle and then ask me, “What’s your shoe size?” I would respond with, “14… WIDE!” I always made sure to throw that last part in because I figured that “wide” should factor into their equation. But back in high school I think that my response along with the pause for dramatic effect missed the mark 10 times out of 10.

Things like that seem pretty silly now, especially to most women who have spent years since high school collecting some more comparative data.

But what if it were still believed to be true? Then I, and my 14 wide wearing feet, would make sure everyone knew our number. How so? For starters, my new regular hang out would be bowling alleys. I’d join a league for every night of the week and Rock n’ Bowls on Friday and Saturday nights, then when you see me I would always be wearing a pair of bowling shoes with 14W on the back in that plastic window. The women would see me walking by, and see the “14W” and know what was up. Way up.

It would have to work within a few days, or a month at the most because if it didn’t, the astounding case of tennis elbow from 7 nights of bowling would make sure I wouldn’t be masturbating any time soon. It’s a putting the chips all in situation, to say the least.

If that didn’t pan out, maybe I could be a clown for birthday parties. With the increasing rate of single mothers, that could be a gold mine. Women also love mysterious men, so the fact that they don’t know what I look like beneath the makeup, coupled with the mystery of just how big those clown shoes are, or the feet inside of them, could make for a night of fun under a big top.

But at the end of the day, women wouldn’t be so easily duped, they would find out the truth, and let’s not forget that looks still play a part, and personality plays a big part as well. And besides, women know that “it isn’t the size of the ship, it’s the motion of the ocean”.

And while that may be true, I’m betting a woman would agree that that wide factor matters now. I mean, if the winds picked up and the waters got a little rough, would you rather be in a canoe or a rowboat?

That’s when I grabbed her arm, and swung it back at her face and asked, “Why you hitting yourself? Why you hitting yourself?”

And a pickup truck.

And a fishing license.