Ronnie Sloan is a 64yo American male. He is Maine born but New Hampshire bred, for his parents were suspicious of their city’s booming lobster industry. Crustaceans should never be so red.

As a young human, Ronnie kept to himself. His parents couldn’t be trusted, with their tie-wearing necks and perfume-ridden bodies. He couldn’t understand how people could ever be satisfied, be happy, emulating (imitating) their ancestors before them. Reading the morning paper on their way to work, opening the refrigerator to sketch up that night’s dinner — moving so slowly through life. It’s not to say he didn’t love his parents, but just that their behaviors and habits were almost foreign to him.

What do you mean children aren’t allowed to drive cars until the age of sixteen?

Why do people wear nice clothes on Sundays for someone who isn’t really there?

Why does daddy’s work own him?
Ronnie loved questions as much as his parents hated them.

He spent his free time as freely as he could get away with — tinkering with broken pieces to make new, odd things. Every Saturday, Ronnie would wake up early to go to his favorite place: the junkyard. He’d tiptoe down the hall, past his sleeping, unknowing parents, and walk towards the backyard to grab his bike. The junkyard wasn’t every young child’s dream, but it sure as hell was Ronnie’s. There he’d spend hours scavenging in the pre-dawn, getting excited whenever he found old refrigerators, torn-up bar stools, doorknobs, stove-top coils — Ronnie was a scrap slut.

He’d spend the rest of his Saturday creating. Toasters with door knobs for feet, springy chairs to sit on, a telescope with Kitchenaid capabilities. His creations drove his parents insane — such unsightly front yard decorations for the New Hampshire suburbs.

But his creations had a short life. Every Monday while Ronnie learned government-mandated social studies, his mom would gather them all up in her station wagon and chuck them in the neighborhood dumpster. Whenever Ronnie would come back from school in the afternoon, she’d always have the same old story: the Gloo-Blub conglomerate had snatched them all up while Ronnnie’s mom prepared chicken salad, with capers. Ronnie would stay quiet — he knew the Gloo-Blub conglomerate would never be interested in his rusty inventions, for this conglomerate was more into the soft stuff, like gooey dung beetles and watered-down soap. He knew his mother hated his creations. She wasn’t capable of understanding how these were Ronnie’s dearest friends.

This was Ronnie’s childhood: loving people who couldn’t understand him — who didn’t even try to. And so he spent most of those years alone. He loved to read the classics — Isaac Newton’s Principles of Physics, Martin Luther’s 95 Theses, French cookbooks — he especially loved catalogues, any kind: Sears Roebuck, Ford automotives, even botany. Ronnie had to learn everything about the universe, however many number of universes were out there.

When he was sixteen, he left home for the great state of Massachusetts. He liked the challenge of being able to spell the word Massachusetts on official government documents. He’d worked odd-jobs for this: he was the newspaper boy, dressing up his bike as a racehorse to get extra tips. He sold hand-stitched knee-pads to the neighborhood kids — he used the patterns no one wanted at the fabric store — and performed at the Veterans’ parties with his one-man band.

A young man living on his own in the great state of Massachusetts. His parents woke up that Tuesday morning to a note pinned on Ronnie’s father’s favorite whiskey — he knew his father to always take a shot of the brown stuff before reporting for duty at the local supermarket. And so it read,

Dear creators, I am leaving today for good. My own good.
It’s about time I left home, flew the coop so to speak.
It’s been real getting to know you both, but this scene is
just not for me.

Ronnie (son)

Ps. Please donate my clothes to the local cat shelter.