In a cruel stage of time called the early 80's I was but a youngster, unknowingly forming the intellectually rugged but tender manchild I have become today. The process was one of unusual tasks and not-so-pleasant rewards. I can't tell this tale in its entirety because it's lengthy and I don't want to bore you with my astonishing accomplishments and heroic deeds and gestures, all the things that make me so incredible. Instead, I will let you gnaw on this...

Early 1980-something. You weren't shit without a pair of smooth Knight Rider underpants on. I think I was something like 7 or 8 and I was all about some Knight Rider. You and a militia of 25 irate bounty hunters made of gold couldn't fuck with KITT. It was a talking Trans Am. Need I say more? I wanted every article of clothing, every toy, everything in the world that had the words "Knight Rider" on it. The greedy bastard I was, I got most of it. Lunch box. T-shirts. Condoms. I was just missing one really important item: The toy car. I couldn't let people know I didn't have the car. None of my friends had it either and that was simply because 1) our parents hated us and 2) they didn't have the loot. After some neighborhood scandal I finally figured out I didn't have the car solely from reason #2. I begged and begged and got laughed at each time. My Dad, Jimmy Breadwinner, was all about the "Hell No's" while my stepmother was more like, "Don't worry, you'll get it." She was such a thieving, sleazy hippie. She didn't work but always found ways to get things she needed, like car parts and weed.

She told me I should save money. That would have been great if I would have known how to come across any. She said I could collect cans. I was like, "Awesome! I get to dig through people's trash!" "Christopher, no! That's nasty," she said. "We're gonna ride around and if you see any cans on the side of the road you can pick em up." She tried to make it sound like something I could have fun doing, but I just wasn't that stupid.

She was such a lying musty sack of shit. I hated that woman. I dug through trash cans at shopping centers, in front of K-mart, all of these public places, in daylight I might add, so people could just see a little black kid rummaging his way through shit just to grab that empty can of Tab.

"Oh look. He looks really poor. He must be so hungry."

"Yeah, that's so sad. Hold on for a sec, I'm gonna give him a dollar."

"Are you mad! If you get anywhere close to him he'll bite you and infect you with his poorness!"

The best part about collecting cans was the process of cashing them all in. My stepmother would drive my sister and I down to the local dump and give them all to an older woman there who looked like she couldn't wait to die. I think what made those trips so special was not only that supernice old lady but the fact that we got to go over and play at the playground suspiciously located in the middle of the dumpsite. Twirling upon that merry-go-round with the smells of molded this and four-day old that assaulting my senses is a real life fairy tale that refuses to be forgotten. Not too many kids got to spend the early mornings of their summer vacations running around totally care-free on a landfill. I was one of the lucky ones.

To make things just a tad bit better, I never received that KITT car. I never saw any of the money that was earned from my hard work. However, I do recall leaving the dump with my stepmother and going over to her friends' house, where I was always told to stay outside in the unforgiving South Carolina sun while they sat inside playing cards, getting drunk, and listening to Micheal Jackson. It's not that my entire childhood was disappointing, it's just that's the stuff that I'm lucky enough to remember.

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