“Are you in high school?” I was somewhat thrown off by the question. When I think of myself as a high-schooler I picture a wavy, pitch-black mullet and braces on my bottom teeth. Images of the bushy, carefully manicured sideburns (also dyed black) that just barely extended past regulation length. We could go so far as to mention the bright red Converse tennis shoes, at least two sizes too large, but we haven’t the time.

“No, I’m not in high school.” Introspective pause. “Do I look like I should be?” This was a trick question. ”I don't know. It’s just that the only people I know as big as you are either grown-ups or are in high school.” He was six years old, so some slack must be given, but that hurt. I pictured myself floating in the gelatinous void between high school and adulthood. Without a tether of some kind, I would simply sink into the nothingness and be lost to the world forever. No one would notice, after all, who reads this crap? This train of thought, inevitably led to my questioning, not just what the hell I’d been doing for the last few years, but what the hell am I poised to accomplish in the very brief time on planet Earth. The tears were beginning to well at the corners of my eyes.

I could have taken a seat next to the boy, and begun the lengthy explanation about why I decided not to join the Peace Corps, but frankly didn't want to have to explain the unique relationship between the Playstation 2, gin and how an organization's Nazi-like adherence to deadlines can lead down the path of self-destruction and low personal expectations. I was saving that speech for the Scared Straight crowd.

I started imagining this very child, crying and lamenting all the horrible crimes he committed against society. Apologizing for the horrible things he'd said to his mother, admitting to a room full of fellow “troubled youth” that he stole candy from his grandmother’s jar, even after she'd said he'd had enough. In a low, mouse-like voice, he would divulge clandestine activities involving the Iranian government, yellowcake uranium and vast sums of money in diamonds and Venezuelan oil futures. I would sit next to him, lightly touch his shoulder and admonish him for betraying his country and his grandmother, and then forgive him, knowing that my word of repentance and hope were his life line. The hot lozenge of a good deed well done would swell in my chest, and it would feel good.

Shortly after that escapade, had it been allowed to continue, I would have realized that “Scared Straight” speakers are always in prison (or worse) and generally have had to do very bad things to get a gig like that. Fortunately, I was rudely interrupted.

“Don’t you think it's weird that ALL kids want to be grown ups and ALL grown ups want to be kids?” This conversation was going downhill and fast. I was poised to make one of those extremely loud sarcastic responses I give to people at parties like, “Yeah! And why do all children seem to think I want to talk to them?” but thought better of it. All I could muster was, “If high school or adulthood are my only choices, then I'm going to have a drink.” I began thinking about the bottle of Dogfish Head 120-minute Pale Ale I'd had in the fridge for the last year, waiting for just the right occasion to open. Masturbatory depression exacted by a pre-teen seemed just the right occasion.

He looked me directly in the eye,” I'd like to drive a car and have a dog, but I can see why being an adult is not all that great, what with taxes and all.”