birthday party

it's a warzone.

the screams come from everywhere all at once. the shrill cries make the hair on my arms stand on end. gooseflesh abounds. fires burn on waxy numbers, some of them can't be blown out.

there's crying, rage, laughter. there's crying rage, crying laughter, crying laughter with a side of rage.

the kids are everywhere.

"presents!"

i'm wearing clown makeup. there's a frown painted on my frown.

a mother hides in the bathroom with a cigarette. she's one of the lucky ones.

"hey kid check this out," i say while making a balloon turn into a balloon with a different shape. "it's a dog." it doesn't really look like a dog.

the kid's on his third piece of cake and can't give my balloon any time, he'd have to stop with the shoveling. once a fat kid slows that jackhammer down there's really no starting it back up. that's physics. physics for fat kids.

i toss the balloon at some walking headgear, the pop it makes is unheard in the roar of birthdayness.

the kid sits up and puts his fork down, his eyes glazed over. he's just eaten three pounds of frosting and the sugar is fucking with his head. throw up or throw down? he wants to party, i can tell from the tremors shake his face he's flying high on the cake, and that is an energy that must, must find it's way out. his eyes are what give him away though, he's going to throw up or shit his pants.

he keeps looking back and forth, hoping nobody sees him, that's how scared he is. whatever terrible accident that's about to happen could come forth at any time, and he's already prepping for damage control.

"you feel alright buddy?" i ask.

he snaps out of the haze and looks up at me. he shakes his head slow.

want me to make you a balloon bucket for you to yak in?

"you feel sick?"

he nods his head. if i asked him a simple math problem he'd have to stomp his foot to answer me. his teachers would be proud.

i look around for some options for my little hungry hippo. mom is still holed up in the toilet so that won't work. maybe outside? a bush or something. a bit rustic, but it'll have to do.

"follow me kid."

i take a step before i realize it's all over my shoes. three pieces of cake and a can of spaghetti-o's. and there's a smell of dairy in there.

the kid has some on the corners of his mouth. he's foul. and now he's smiling.

i want to make a balloon gun and shoot him in the face.

that's when the screaming comes in.

"happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear..."

sandbox

playing in sand is barely better than playing in dirt.

dump trucks suck, castles suck, well when they're made of sand they suck, and dirty kids suck.

"wanna make another awesome castle kiddo?" i ask my dirty reality friend.

he's managed to bury his legs in the stuff, for the hundredth time today. luckily he has no fashion sense to one more pair of ruined romp a roo pants won't mean a thing one way or the other.

"i want to play dump truck again." perfect, dump truck.

he pulls this yellow plastic toy truck up on top of his sandy legs, its wheels don't work anymore cause genius tried to drive it through wet concrete when the city repaved the road two weeks ago. he cried like a girl until his parents bought him a video game, further showing they have no spine and he has no future as a level headed individual.

i pile some sand in the broke down toy dump truck's bucket. i'm having the time of my life.

i darling little girl comes over to our side of the sandbox with a barbie convertible. she sits down next to sandy pants and drives the pink corvette in circles. she makes plane noises instead of car noises. she's a genius. they're perfect for each other.

maybe i'll get lucky and they'll become best friends, making my existence pointless and giving me a way out of this particular job.

"i think she wants to play with you buddy-o," please don't embarrass yourself in front of the lady.

he freezes up as her barbie-mobile side swipes his turd truck. i can hear him hold his breath.

"hi," she says to him.

he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. he's froze. this is the beginning of the kids terribly unsuccessful life with women. rejection will follow him closely, two cars back one lane over, he'll barely be able to spot it until it's too late. when he gets the nerve to actually speak to the actual sex. today isn't that day i fear.

"i think she's into you kid, say something before you ruin it."

his lip curls up in disgust. sweat forms on his brow. why in the world would i expect anything more. he still thinks girls are carriers of disease and barely talks to his mommy unless he's got the ice cream jones or doesn't love the last gaggle of toys he's been showered with. anything outside of the sob, whine, pout dialect is really beyond his intelligence.

she stares at him for another moment before deciding he's not worth her time, even at eight she has some standards.

barbie drives her little car away from the kid and i, and the kid breathes easier.

"well what now buddy," i ask.

"castles."

i should have known.

new kid

it's like christmas when i get a new kid.

i arrive in reality, shaking off a hangover. it's hot as hell, high noon, and i'm in a sweater and corduroys.

"hi." that must be the mark.

i look down hoping for an angel. what i see is a fat kid who's been dunking his head in buckets of ice cream.

the smell of rotten dairy drifts off of him.

i smile, "hey buddy, need a friend?"

he cocks his head to the side like a confused dog and says nothing.

i must be wrong, this is a mistake. the kid in front of me isn't my mark at all, just a fat kid in front of me with chocolate chunk in his ears. so i look around.

i'm in a parking lot, filled with cars. i spot a darling little girl with her mommy walking to a station wagon. she's the angel i was hoping for. there's even a bow in her hair.

i leave fats behind and go check in with the angel, my new boss.

"hiya darling, what's your name?" i even put out my hand, ready to shake and close the deal.

the girl passes me by. she must be shy. i'm an odd looking imaginary friend to pop out of nowhere dressed for autumn instead of summer.

then the tap on my back. i turn around slowly, dread on my face. there he is, holding out an empty ice cream cone, what once was mint chocolate chip. i bet, yep, there's even a ring of mint chocolate chip on my sweater where the bastard tapped me to get my attention.

there's that smile, outlined in filth.

"hi," he says again.

and then the worst part hits me. this kid is clueless and on the bottom end of social, he's going to need an imaginary friend for a long, long time.

"hiya kid, i'm merlin." i shake his slimy hand, closing the deal.

behind me, i turn to watch as the angel drives away with her mother, bow in her hair, no ice cream on her face.

crying

crying can, at times, lead to pain, suffering, and a loss of physical and emotional control. it's worse to watch than go through yourself.

i'm stuck, or stranded is better. i'm stranded with the kid. he's crying in front of me. bawls, weeps, gushes. he's normally very ugly. when he's in a fit i feel the urge to duck and cover.

"are you feeling better buddy?" i'm not so lucky.

snot hangs down from his nose and ear. i have no idea how that happened but it's enough to distract me from my displeasure of existence.

"i, i, i, i, i, i, i." the kid can't talk. it's all i take to not start crying myself.

"i, i, i, i." breath a little. nobody's even here.

"what's wrong pally pal?" which he can't hear through all the snot in his ears.

i'm desperate so i get up, take a few steps away from the tree we've been hanging out by, and run headlong into it at nominal speed. it hurts, but dealing with cindarella here hurts more.

once the blood clears from my eyes, i check in on my audience. i get nervous after my acts. do i still have it? can i make the masses laugh and forget their troubles? has the kid stopped crying? is there still snot on his ear?

yes, there is still snot on his ear. no the kid has not stopped with the crying.

"stop it, please." i try to say, but it comes out funny. the tree accident has dislodged some of my teeth. if the tree took my eyes and ears as well i would praise if for sparing me the pain of the kid.

he bawls on a monsoon level, then suddenly and without warning, he just stops.

i get up on my elbows and smile dumbfoundedly at the silence. i've made it out of the storm, this is what it must feel like to be saved from some catastrophie. is that a plane i hear, has someone seen my smoke signal?

"hey," i sound happy, "hey buddy." way too happy.

"hi merlin." he smiles. an odd expression on a face so red and puffy.

"what happened back there, why the good cry," but i could care less.

"i got a headache from too much ice cream."

"what?" what, a brain freeze?

the kid taps his head to help me understand. "brain freeze."

then i hate him. i hate him so much for being so stupid. i hate him for crying over too much of a good thing. i hate him because of my missing teeth. i hate him because i hate him.

"let's play tag"

i would rather have another round with the tree.

"ok buddy, sounds awesome," i say.

"you're it."

first person shooter

these are the greatest of times.

the kid sits on the edge of his bed, slumped over a colossal controller. he could be paralyzed, a statue, if not for the blur of his fingers, smashing buttons at much speed.

i couldn't be happier.

"wanna play or something," i ask quietly.

no? too busy being awesome at video games? your zombie aspirations all coming true? your parents should be proud.

maybe he couldn't hear me over the sound of virtual world war two. maybe it's because i'm under the bed. maybe it's because i asked too quietly. i'm not that concerned.

i'm too busy having a moment. i'm too busy knowing i couldn't be happier.

the machine guns stop abruptly. then the kid's head appears upside down in front of me. his dirty hair hanging down to the dirty floor.

"hiya merlin," he says.

"hey buddy."

can't you see i'm busy in a moment.

"how's normandy going up there?"

"good." then he smiles, which is terrifying upside down.

"want some help with your game?" i ask.

"nah, i just wanted to make sure you're still there."

it's at this point i start wondering when the kid's going to wear his first dress. not even in a hurtful way, just curious, like wondering what day he'll make it to first base, or dig up the secrets to masturbation. the dress is in his timeline, etched into his carbon.

he winks at me then his smiling/frowning head disappears.

i need a cigarette so bad.

the machine guns start up again. before i know it, i'm in a deep sleep.

tag

"i wanna play tag," the kid says.

fuck, shit, damn, tag. i hate fucking tag.

"ok, great. i love tag!" i respond. my smile cramps from over compensation.

the kid starts running around the yard like a head case. and he giggles. there i am, a statue with a joker grin while this kid twirls around me. if i were real i'd kick some sense into him. since i'm not i'll try and tag him then run away, but not too far or he'll get distracted and i'll die. tag is awesome.

i get him pretty easy, cause i'm big and fast and he's tiny and slow. he hates that shit and stops giggling, which freaks me out a little cause the only other people who swing their moods that hard are insane and insane people are scary.

i run from the kid, just fast enough to make him think he's got a shot at me, which he doesn't.

"you almost got me," i encourage him. which is cool cause he doesn't have me at all, and he's breathing harder, whcih makes his face all red and crazy and funny looking. i think he's really pissed now.

i stop running completely so he can tag me and chill the fuck out, which makes him giggle again.

he knows i let him tag me but acts like he just won the fucking special olympics, giggling like mad. his parents must be proud.

"i win, i win." he's rubbing it in now. sweet little guy. then he sits down, i guess we're done with tag and moving on to something real fun like digging in the dirt, which i love as much as tag.

i sit and pull at some grass like some caveman version of myself. if anyone could see me but shithead here i'd be embarrassed. since they can't i really get into it. i'm the joe louis of grass pulling, really tearing it out now. this grass doesn't stand a chance. i think the kid's getting freaked out cause he stops digging and just stares at me while i do my thing, his eyes saucers.

"come on buddy, get into this green stuff with me." i keep tearing up the lawn til his eyes start to water and his lip quivers. i never get through a day without making the little bastard shower his face, but this one's kinda impressive. so i let it all out and go imaginary badger, i'm gonna dig my way to china. he starts howling and i get it. it's one of those weird scary images you can't explain, a grown man shouldn't pull the grass up cause it's not natural and makes kids cry. lesson learned.

"momma momma," the kid's screaming now. i calm down, it's my favorite part of the day, just before i get to go home. the kid jumps up and runs into the house, leaveing me there on the ground with grass stains on my fingers and dirt under my nails.

i pull out a cigarette and light up.

puff. release. then i disappear. another day in the can

To Whom It May Concern, by Emory "Merlin" Host

Emory "Merlin" Host
1313 Nowhere Ln.
Invisiville, ISA 00000


To Whom It May Concern;

My name is Emory "Merlin" Host and I'm looking for a job. I need to work, see, to survive. All of my experience lies in befriending young children from the ages of 2 to 15, or whenever they decide that the trials of reality are plenty enough for their brains to comprehend, at which point I step away meekly, and move onto the next young soul in search of a friend. Some call my position that of "Imaginary Friend," but I personally prefer "Unseen Social Companion," or "Friend that cannot be seen or heard, but exists nonetheless, even if those with limited imagination think he doesn't."

As an Unseen Social Companion, I feel my strength comes from an intuition only children can respect. I generally guess pretty well the plotting of tiny plastic villains and the amount of noise acceptable when sneaking soda out of the kitchen refrigerator at all hours of the night. I make glorious sketches of tiger pits and quicksand, used primarily in overhead drawings of bases, camps, outposts, headquarters, moonstations, and castles. I have a blackbelt in five forms of shadow karate, and my automatic gunfire ventriloquism includes m-16s, ak-47s, laser beam rifles, sonic cannons, and blowguns. Mostly though, I'm up for anything, from sandboxing to large scale multi-genre action figure theaters of warfare across lawns, gardens, households and bathtubs.

I require little in my acceptance of any imaginary position. A smoke break here and there and some weekends to let my hair down and hang out with my friends. I look forward to the opportunity to speak with you further about this position, and have included my resume and references with this cover letter.

Best luck in your search and pleasent dreams in your sleep,

Emory "Merlin" Host, Unseen Social Companion