I am six years old. I want a cool name. I want to be called “Jeff John Blue the motorcycle man”. I’ll ride town to town, full gear on my Harley, a 30.06 rifle slung easy across the saddle. Serving justice.
I tell my brothers and sisters to call me Jeff, and ask my parents to call me Jeff John Blue the motorcycle man. The long name. I wrap toilet paper around my forearms and shins, duct tape the seams. I don’t wear a helmet. I gallop around the house making motorcycle noises with my mouth.