When I was a senior in high school

my English teacher showed us a documentary on Ray Bradbury.

It was a VHS. Now, you can see this same video on YouTube.

It was obvious that she revered him (most English teachers do).

When I saw this fat old man with long white hair, wearing thick big glasses, and rowing shorts, or were they beach shorts, or sailing shorts (I’m not sure) I thought, that man figured it out.

He walked through his cluttered house, and there were Coors cans everywhere.

He opened his refrigerator, where there was only one giant piece of cheese. Then he carved off a slice, and walked into his living room with a beer.

Ray Bradbury loved to talk about writing, and so did my English teacher.

“Maybe, you should teach English,” she told me. I didn’t tell her that I hated English teachers, and my self-esteem wasn’t that low.

I loved myself, even if, I didn’t know who I was. “I think I’ll join the military,” I said. “Maybe, the Marines.”

She looked at me with horror on her face. I imagined she could see my brains, half blown off.

What a waste.

Then, she recommended that I read The Red Badge of Courage, and I did.

I wrote an essay on it, and got an A.

When we had breaks in English class, I would impress the girls with my one-armed pushups.

They giggled, which was enough motivation for me, to keep going for eternity.

I never joined the Marines (thank God, because I hate authority), and somehow, in the back of my mind, there was always Ray Bradbury, writing on his electric typewriter, in a messy house, with an unused swimming pool, outside.

That’s who I wanted to be,

and that’s more or less who I became.

I haven’t succeeded yet,

but that’s the dream.

Some, want to work on wall street, and go to meetings.

I just want to be left alone with my own genius.