When I was around ten years old, I came down with the flu. I was a happy sick boy because I got the chance to miss school, which my parents hardly ever let me do. I started feeling sick late one evening, and made this known to my parents, just in case they were going to cave in and let me miss a day or two. In the morning, my mother woke me gingerly and asked in a trying-not-to-disturb-you voice, "Do you feel up to school today?" Leaping on the opportunity, I very weakly nodded and replied, very slowly and painfully, "I don't know, but I don't think so..." I let my voice trail off. It was unwise to let the parent know that you are eager to stay home. My mother decided that it would be best if I stayed at home that day, and went downstairs to help prepare my sister to catch the bus. After a little while, she came back to my room with a can of ginger ale, which she tended to employ as a substitute for chicken noodle soup as a cold remedy. I took a very small sip and winced, far too ill to be enjoying a tasty beverage. My mother said some soothing words and told me to go back to sleep, if I could, and that she would be back up later to check on me. I rolled over as she walked out of the room and shut my eyes. The main problem with staying home from school is staying in bed enough that your parents do not catch on to your trickery. Normally, it would have been a strain to lie in bed all morning, but I was lucky enough this morning to actually fall back to sleep. My mother woke me up again around ten or so. She said, rather gently, that she had to run to the local ___-mart general store to pick some stuff up. She did not know whether or not to leave me at home, or take me with her. I assured her that I would be fine at home, that I would probably just fall right back asleep. Moderately placated, she left for the sprawling complex that was ___-mart. As soon as I heard the garage door shut, I leaped out of bed and jogged downstairs, ravenous and searching for nourishment. I carried my bowl of cereal over to the den and sat on the sofa. No food was allowed outside of the kitchen at that time, but I was on a holiday and feeling rebellious. Sitting on the sofa, luxuriating in my Life brand cereal, I thought for a minute about my friends stuck in class and decided that I was probably missing the math portion of my day. I was extremely distraught over this, and sought solace in the warm embrace of the television. Another problem with staying home from school is the lack of enjoyable television programming to be found during the day. I was forced to choose from a handful of soap operas, which really were not my style at that age, and another handful of Info-mercials, which, it turns out, were even less my style.

I finally settled on a show called "All My Children," which I knew that my grandmother, my father's mother, was particularly fond of. I could remember sitting with her to watch it, and her talking to the characters, a woman named Erica in particular. I searched the TV for precious Erica, so that I might give her advice in an homage to my grandmother. By the time I had finished my cereal, "All My Children" was over, replaced by a terrible new soap opera that I had never heard of before. As I rose to carry my dishes to the sink, I thought I heard the big wooden gate outside open and shut. I hurried into the kitchen and washed out my bowl and placed it in the dish washer. As I strolled casually back into the den, I noticed the man standing on the porch outside, peering through the large picture windows. I froze, paralyzed with fear. My worst nightmare, a fear that I had been nursing for as long as I could remember, was standing on my back porch, jiggling my door knob, peering into my den. All at once, a flood of memories rushed past my eyes: The night my older sister/baby sitter made us hide in the attic because she thought she heard someone downstairs. All of the sleep I had lost, lying in bed and staring out my window, willing whatever criminals were out there not to come to my house. The time we came back from vacation and walked in to the sound of breaking glass and running, a burglar fleeing our house. All of this was wrapped up in the dark figure scanning the room that I was on the fringe of. He was a tall man, but skinny, wearing black tennis shoes, well worn, that reminded me slightly of the sort that basketball referees wear. He had on blue jeans, but old to the point of looking almost white. He was wearing a two-tone winter coat that looked new, in vibrant blue and green. Covering his hands was a pair of black leather gloves. The glove covering his right hand, the hand on the doorknob, was missing an index finger. His neck and chin had not seen a razor in quite a while. His skin was reddish in hue, and his eyes, his eyes were looking right at mine. He had stopped twisting the doorknob and was now staring at me. I was entranced, could not look away. I could feel my body trembling, and my head started to swim, staring at him, at those eyes. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he broke eye-contact and ran back through the gate. I did not ever see him again. I did not tell my mother what happened, or anyone else in my family, for that matter. I kept it locked inside of me, to come back to, to review. I have never stayed home from school for illness since.