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Before Mrs. Wilson’s I had been to two other daycares. I remember the owner of one got kicked by a horse. She came in and showed us her thigh, a black bruise the size of a dinner plate. At another, a kind childcare worker gave me a Mickey and Minnie fork and spoon set that I would use for the next decade. At that one I also zipped the head of my dick in my fly for the first and last time.

Mrs. Wilson had a husband who did wood shop projects in the basement during the day while we congregated in the kitchen for meals. He would come up burly through the basement door and tease us, saying that he had cut his thumb off and showing us that old trick where you appear to separate the last section of your thumb by using sleight of hand. One day he actually did cut his thumb off. We were not sure how to react by this point.

Tim and I were friends of course. I was a little older. I developed a bad habit of drinking and smoking more than I could afford, and of working less than I could afford as well. That earlier living arrangement dissolved and we moved apart for some time. I got married and divorced. He fucked my wife out of spite when I was dating her. I tried to piss on him when he was sitting in the back of my LeBaron convertible. He jumped out and I just pissed in my own car. Frenemies for a short time then.