One of the things I love about living in the city – rather than the suburbs – is the cultural diversity. An arts district in a gentrifying Hispanic neighborhood; all cultures are equally represented here.

Not in control; represented.

Regardless, tonight is my kid’s first karate class. I’m trying not to look, because I don’t want him to think I’m judging. I remember the “first” karate class. Total fish out of water experience. No amount of Ralph Whatever-his-last-name-is changes that.

Before you judge or threaten my gen-x license, I know his last name. I don’t know how to spell it and neither does Samsung.

The instructor’s voice screams “former drill instructor”, but I dare not ask. I’m trying to remain as anonymous as possible here. Not that I’m anyone special, but because I don’t want things to get personal.

I want to be Mr. Cloud with the beard to everyone here except the barber. You let a man put a razor to your throat, he better know your life’s story.

What’s the point of the whole “city experience” if I’m not going to be another stranger in the park? It’s fine at book cons, but I’ve grown weary of speaking. Hell, in 2025, it’s too dangerous.

Born and raised in a smaller town, I couldn’t go to a gas station for smokes without running into 4 chicks I dated, kind of like that chick in Boondock Saints.

I don’t want to discuss military, law-stuff, books, or karate with anyone. At least there’s no one here wanting to “remember that one time”. No one knows me, my family, or my game. I’m a random middle-aged white dude.

I do miss it sometimes. I miss communicating with people who knew I had a past; knew I existed once. People who know I died and are proud of it. I even saved them all a trip to the funeral home. I just told them to pretend I never existed, and they’re doing a damned good job.

Right now, the ghost of Me is sitting in the gymnasium of a neighborhood rec center with a hot chich leaning back between my legs for support (and nothing more). At 51, I’m still trying not to probe her thoughts with my wily pillow.

Every day triggers another emotional memory from my younger days. It would appear as though I’d forgotten another “first karate class”. A younger, more embarrassing one.

It, like so many more, were repressed naturally via a misunderstood, shy mind. That was me as a kid.

I’m not the butt of anyone’s jokes here and I never slept with anyone’s significant other. Priceless.

My mind is an undiscovered treasure trove of trauma, and the wall between then and now grows thin. It’s not dying fast enough for my liking.

Why can’t our heads have recycle bins?

In the end, the kid did good, and he got celebratory Taco Bell. Hopefully his violent gas will cease before his next class. That would make him an Air Bender.

Laugh.