When I was three, I had a favorite little cousin named Stevie. My favorite part about him was that he worshipped me. We were next door neighbors in Chicago, until his daddy have the audacity to move little Stevie out to California, and I was left all alone.
I always looked forward to those trips to California. He still worshipped me and followed me around everywhere. I needed an acolyte. I was such a misfit in my small coal mining town, and the trips to California made me feel like I was special.
Our parents bathed us together for longer than they should have, but we seem to have emerged unscathed. We ran around the mall with all our cousins, got nabbed by mall security who questioned us about the whereabouts of our mothers, went to church dances together, went ice-skating together, played tennis together, played Bunthead together, and toilet papered together. In the end I worshiped him because he could solve a Rubik’s cube in under two minutes and pass all levels of Pac-Man. I fell in love with all of his friends. He didn’t fall in love with any of mine. Now we have our own families and we hardly see each other, even though we live only fifteen minutes away. It’s crazy that we were closer when we live 700 miles apart, but I guess that’s the way life is. Today is his birthday. Happy Birthday Stevie!