I vacation in North Dakota. I own two pairs of shoes, but seven toothbrushes; each day gets its own color. I never order the sugar-free version of anything.

I prefer a cottage to a mansion, a campfire to a movie, and a bicycle to a sports car. I like the smell of skunk.

I won't assume roses are your favorite or that jewelry makes your heart race. I think of people as people, not templates.

I strike up conversations with cashiers and toll-takers. I remember birthdays. I'll listen to your dreams.

You notice what others miss. You enjoy the sound of laundry tumbling in the dryer. You use your blinker.

You accept the occasional lapse in service at a restaurant, realizing the server might be having a tough day. That's when you leave your biggest tip.

Squirrels amuse you.

A crossword puzzle is a worthy adversary for you. You check your own oil, and you wipe your dipstick with a random sock that was in your trunk. Or with your day pass from the national park.

Opera's not your bag. You believe there's no bad time for a road trip.

You never pass a children's lemonade stand without giving to the cause. You're not into celebrity worship.

Those near and dear to you are your stars.

You don't own high heels. You're apolitical.

You're more windows-open than climate control. You're ready to explore. You shine.

A day spent dressing for the show.

Decision made -- short sleeves for easy cymbal access.

The crowd sways and dips to my beats.

That is the true reward; tips are merely gravy.

Damn -- broken drumstick and a fall from grace.

Another pie in the face hurled by the hand of life.

Rejoice, I brought seconds!

An apple sat in the middle of the suburban road, putrefying in the afternoon sun. Its skin had shriveled, and the fruit itself was now brown and soggy. Adding to the apple’s trouble was the fact that a young girl with pigtails had ridden over it on her bike just 20 minutes earlier. It was a lonely, discarded piece of fruit on Harvey Lane.

A handsome young boy emerged now from the shelter of the woods. He walked down the street and towered high over the rotting apple. He was dressed in a solid denim cap, well-worn overalls, and filthy brown sneakers that his mother had bought at a yard sale earlier that summer for just two dollars fifty. The boy had a strange, uneven grin on his chapped lips.

An embroidered patch on the left breast of his overalls revealed the boy’s name to be Jake. Or perhaps Jake was a previous owner of this particular outfit; it was impossible to know for sure, as so much of his clothing was secondhand. But for now, the boy just smiled down at the smushy, gooshy fruit below. He lifted his foot from the hot pavement and lowered it slowly – deliberately slowly – onto the apple. It splattered under the weight of his shoe, leaving a wet, brown stain on Harvey Lane. It had been a slow, unkind, undeserved death indeed.

Pleased with himself and feeling quite adventurous, the boy continued down the street toward the newly built playground on the corner. It was so cool, and he had yet to see it crowded as playgrounds typically are. His overalls were weighed down by new and interesting toys. (So many pockets to fill!) All the added weight made the blue material sag outward around his waist. This fact, along with the dirt clumps in his hair and the purple Popsicle muck around his lips, made him quite a sight to behold.

As he approached the playground, two children played on the teeter-totter: one boy and one girl. They were perhaps two years younger than the boy in the overalls, who had turned 10 the week before. Double digits at last. What a strong young man he was growing into!

The teeter-totter went up and down, up and down; its engineers would have been proud. Up went the little boy with the coal-black hair, and down came the girl with the pigtails – the same girl who had injured that old apple with her bike tires. Mean ol’ girl.

After the teeter tottered, the totter teetered, giving the girl her chance to be high above the dusty gravel below. It was extraordinarily hot out now, and her forehead was beaded with perspiration. The girl’s mother had insisted she carry a bottle of water with her. Indeed, their house was right beside the playground. Had her mother looked out the kitchen window, she would have spotted the girl smiling right at that moment.

The two younger children saw the boy approaching. “Hello, buddy,” they implied with their grinning mouths and wide-open eyes. It would be so good to have another friend here with them. Now they could play on the toy that spins ‘round and ‘round and ’round! (It was just never as much fun with two people.) The boy grinned back at them – in truth, he hadn’t ceased grinning since stepping on the apple. He was sooo happy to see his friends. It had been a long walk from the house. He had been waiting forever, it seemed, to share his new toys with them. Finally, he had gotten home from school and could play!

He reached into his back left pocket and brought out his Thumper. It had a neat leather grip on its handle and a nifty claw on top. It was a shiny, silver toy. He lifted it high in the air, and then brought it down to show his friend. Bang went the Thumper, first with the dull side and then with the claw. This time it stuck in the younger boy’s head. Why wouldn’t he give it back? Didn’t he know that it’s impolite not to share?

The little girl screamed. Apparently she was upset at being left out of the game. Feeling badly, the boy reached into his right back pocket and took out his Zinger. It had been so easy to take from the kitchen counter while his mother had her back turned. Now he raised it to the sky and slashed it, slashed it, slashed it down into the little girl’s neck. How loudly she screamed! The boy was sure someone would hear. At last the screaming stopped, but there would be little time left. Other people – older people – would surely come now and want to play their own little game.

The boy reached into his front pocket and took out the bottle he’d seen his mother use so many times. It had a strange smell to it. He popped the top and sprayed the liquid it held onto the little girl. And then he lit a match. There was no screaming-– that was over for good now-– but there was the smell of barbecue, perfect for a late-summer day. Boy, was he in the mood for a hot dog.

The boy had been right; the older people came running. It all got so busy now. People flitted and fluttered. One of the old people grabbed the boy’s arm. Ow! Their game wasn’t nearly as fun as his had been – not nearly as fun.

There were people screaming and crying, and there were blankets and loud noises. Everybody was either shouting very, very, loudly or was very, very quiet – like a mouse. The boy’s mother came down the street now. He was glad to see her; he needed a hug after this crazy, crazy day. His overalls were splattered with red and would need to be washed. It’s no fun wearing wet clothes, even in this heat.

It was strange, though. His mother didn’t hug him like she usually did. Instead she prayed -- it must have been praying, for she was on her knees with her hands on the ground. What a very strange thing for her to do. It wasn’t even Sunday!

A white truck came now. It said it was an “ecnalubma.” The boy’s friends were put in the back, and it drove away very, very quickly. The boy was so happy it did, because the noise it made hurt his ears very, very badly.

Two men were hitting each other with their fists and grunting like farm animals. There was so much red everywhere! Oh, what an awful mess. This game wasn’t going very well at all. He hadn’t even gotten to use his small tooth-monster, with its silver blade and wooden handle. The boy knew now that it would just be TV tonight. How boring indeed. Why had the old people sent his friends away? No fair!

That night, a woman miles from Harvey Lane sat at her kitchen table. She was tall and lean and not particularly interesting to look at. She opened a bottle of wine -- probably not the right thing to do, but whatever -- and placed her briefcase on the chair next to her. She clicked it open, removed the manila envelope from inside, and let its contents slide out before her. There were two dozen or so sheets of paper in front of her now -- the boy’s was on top, last name Adelson. The assignment had been so simple, and her work would take no time at all. Surely, then, the chardonnay wouldn’t be a bad thing. It’s not as though it were whiskey, she thought to herself.

There was just one question written on the paper before her. It read, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The boy had written, very simply, “I want to be just like my daddy and mommy: a carpenter and a cook.”

The woman raised her wine glass to her lips and sighed softly. She hadn’t yet found the love of her life, hadn’t yet had the chance to have children of her own. Her job was so bittersweet because of this fact. Now, at her table, she was living vicariously through the Adelsons. My, what proud parents they must be!