Fall is my favorite season of the year. I detest warm weather, and snow gets old after a few weeks, but there is nothing better than three months of light jackets and pretty leaves. On October 12th, three years ago, I woke up meaning to have some toast, maybe a glass of orange juice, work on my article for a bit and then go for a nice walk around the neighborhood.
Instead, I ended up babysitting a mentally deranged nineteen year old.
I made it to the kitchen, had my breakfast in peace while I watched the trees outside the window. I had pulled on my favorite sweater and had just sat down in front of my computer when the doorbell started ringing. It was soon accompanied with frantic knocking and a muffled voice from outside.
For some reason, I assumed all this noise was meant to convey and emergency. I ran to the door and flung it open, half out of breath.
Standing there was a young man who looked about fifteen, with scruffy blond hair. He was wearing a green coat that looked like it had been bought secondhand from a dead hobo, and carrying a backpack that looked to be in about the same condition. In one hand, he held a relatively nondescript black book that seemed to be the most sound thing in his possession. I had never seen the kid before in my life.
"Are you Mr. Oseman?" he asked, looking over his shoulder, then back at me, like someone was following him. I looked, there was no one there.
"Yes," I must admit, I was hoping that the boy wanted to ask me about being a journalist or something. Anything to stoke my pride. "And who are you?"
"I can explain," he said, and he sounded like a little kid who just knows he's gotten into trouble. "I just... can I come in, please?"
Maybe it was a mistake. Well, I'm almost sure it was a mistake. But what was I supposed to do? Leave the poor kid on my porch, looking scared half to death? I thought I would let him in, call his parents, and send him happily on his way. Not a chance.
Instead, I ended up babysitting a mentally deranged nineteen year old.
I made it to the kitchen, had my breakfast in peace while I watched the trees outside the window. I had pulled on my favorite sweater and had just sat down in front of my computer when the doorbell started ringing. It was soon accompanied with frantic knocking and a muffled voice from outside.
For some reason, I assumed all this noise was meant to convey and emergency. I ran to the door and flung it open, half out of breath.
Standing there was a young man who looked about fifteen, with scruffy blond hair. He was wearing a green coat that looked like it had been bought secondhand from a dead hobo, and carrying a backpack that looked to be in about the same condition. In one hand, he held a relatively nondescript black book that seemed to be the most sound thing in his possession. I had never seen the kid before in my life.
"Are you Mr. Oseman?" he asked, looking over his shoulder, then back at me, like someone was following him. I looked, there was no one there.
"Yes," I must admit, I was hoping that the boy wanted to ask me about being a journalist or something. Anything to stoke my pride. "And who are you?"
"I can explain," he said, and he sounded like a little kid who just knows he's gotten into trouble. "I just... can I come in, please?"
Maybe it was a mistake. Well, I'm almost sure it was a mistake. But what was I supposed to do? Leave the poor kid on my porch, looking scared half to death? I thought I would let him in, call his parents, and send him happily on his way. Not a chance.
