It was a daylight basement; it had a whole apartment in it—kitchen, living room with a fireplace, bathroom, bedroom, everything. I had a brother that lived there for awhile but no one ever went down there but him. It was a mystery space. I used to throw rocks in the open window that was near to the ground and make wishes. Until one time he was sitting at his desk and the rock hit him.
Once, when I was around seven or eight, after he had moved out, I went there to hide for awhile. While hiding, I hatched the idea of living in the basement. I could come up and get food while everyone left for the day. It would be like running away without all the logistics. While sitting there the idea grew more and more exciting. Why hadn’t I thought of this before.
Then, when I was grown, I would emerge from the basement, very polished and possibly even carrying a briefcase, I would walk pass my family, all hunched over their oatmeal, and I would say coolly, “Hello” They would all turn and look at me surprised and say “Why, where have you been?” And I would respond calmly, “I’ve been in the basement.” Then I would say, “Goodbye,” walk out the door, and drive away.
My plan was foiled after they soon found me hiding in a kitchen cabinet but it was a good idea.
I used to imagine myself living in this hill I could see about my school. I imagined myself tending my flock of sheep. Sometimes when we traveled I would look outside the window keeping an eye out for places where I could live in the bushes or under bridges. I would think how I could probably live there and not even the FBI would be able to find me. Then I would try to imagine if I really could get there without the FBI finding me, but I never could figure out how I could make it so nobody would ever see me or I’d never leave foot prints or finger prints. I guess I was a paranoid kid or something.