The following are true stories. Notes at the bottom.

ONE

My Last Ride on the Dirty Dog

In college, I frequently rode the Dirty Dog. That’s Greyhound, for the uninitiated. Cheaper than a plane.

On a two-day ride from Colorado Springs to Seattle, I befriended a man who, as we drove through the night, was yanked out of his seat and pummeled into the floor by a screaming Marine. Shit happens to the nicest people, I thought.

Turned out my friend, now swollen and gushing blood, was fresh out of prison, a child molester who had been stalking me across America for the previous 1000 miles. We had meant to sit together, but after a re-board he had been forced to take a different seat when a girl grabbed the one next to me. Then he got antsy and tried to suck the Marine’s dick at 3am.

I learned a lot of this from the girl, who spoke with the cops before they sped off with my “friend.” Later, the girl and I ate hotdogs together and she asked me if I’d like to feel her boobs because, “You look like you haven’t done this before.” Her name was Sarah, and no kidding, she’s still in my phone as “Sarah Bus,” phone number and everything.

TWO

My First Memory (But Two Related Stories First)

To this day, my mother keeps a baggie in her sewing box full of items she found in my diaper. Rocks, coins, marbles, Legos, teeth. One day I developed a fever. Mom needed to take my temperature, so out came the glass thermometer. She brought it to my mouth; I rebuffed. She tried to fight me, then stopped and began to laugh. She hoisted me to my changing table, flipped me on my stomach, and tore off my pants. It was the coldest thermometer in the world, and now it was up my ass. Still can’t shake the feeling. I was three years old.

I recall waking in the middle of the night, a fierce urge to poop. I was too little to make it downstairs in the dark. That’s where the toilet was. I started howling and mom stumbled into my room, exhausted. She looked at me; I screamed at her. She glared at me, tore off my pants, and held me over a small garbage can. She started laughing. I took a big shit. I was two and a half years old.

My first memory from early childhood is of waddling around our living room in diapers. Suddenly, I saw a little boy in a long mirror. It was me. I stared and kept staring, then crapped. I kept staring. As my crap cooled, I felt tears begin to well, but there I was in the goddam mirror. How cool was that?! I kept staring. When my crap was stone cold, I said goodbye and screamed my head off. I was two years old, plus maybe a few months, and I’ll never forget it.