My mother always says it was my father’s fault I couldn’t get along with anyone.

“Always looking to prove how you’re so much smarter than everyone else,” she says over frantic puffs of her cigarette after picking me up early that afternoon from school.

But only at red lights.

And only on days I’d get called into the principal’s office.  

Why do adults tell students that the way to spell “principal” is by remembering the last three letters?

“Sounds like an active attempt to groom minors,” I told Mr. Pickle across his desk after getting excused from English class one month ago.

And yes: Pickle is his last name.

“I really don’t want to see any pickle this afternoon,” I said at the next forced meet-and-greet the week after.

“My. I’ve gotten myself into a pickle,” I admitted just as he tried to ease back into his seat the week after that.

“No thanks, really. I really don’t want to sample pickle today or ever,” I informed the next.

And that was the last time I was ever called in.

“Always, always have to humiliate everyone around you,” Mom proclaims over her flared Virginia Slim, now just a nub. She lights a fresh one, and I consider the likelihood of her also igniting her eyebrows, which are the same color as the tip of her cigarette since she highlighted them to match her now-orange hair.

I decide to let her know at a later date that there are real benefits to using hydrogen peroxide so close to the orbicularis rectus of each eye, one of which is improved hearing upon loss of mobility of this essential muscle. But she clearly isn’t ready for instruction regarding foreseen gains of sensory deprivation, so I fixate on the wisps of heat emanating from the disposed butt in the ashtray on the console.

It wasn’t that I had to get people angry to make them feel small—was it really my fault that everyone else is severely myopic?—I just had a hard time tolerating people who weren’t smart enough to understand me.

Mom turns off the ignition, slams her door behind her, then the front door of the house. To quell her nerves, I consider letting her know she need not prepare me any dinner. I ascertain that there indeed is more neon-orange mac-and-cheese in the pantry, then watch the double, double toil and trouble within my rotating bowl of convenient comestibles. After the satisfying clack of the microwave door, I grip the steaming bowl with my lobster-shaped mittens and take it to my room to share some with my friend.

“You don’t judge me,” I tell Lon, offering him tasty tidbits. “You never do.”

He smiles.

“You’re the ideal companion, partner,” I add, cocking my finger at him.

Lon wiggles his tail in agreement, then swims down to the noodle now lodged into the sediment at the bottom of his tank. The contrast between the goodness of the lava-red cave and the wasabi-green sand makes for a satisfying optical collusion. I shall write an ode—but ho: Mother is now huffing down the hallway, plotting new ways to subvert me as she doubtless regards herself in the mirror. This indeed is the same one she’d installed months ago so I could abide by her supreme tenet of proper grooming before going to school. But as with everything else, she has co-opted it.

“Behave tonight! For once in your life!” she informs her flame-retardant caterpillars which are likely now warbling towards each other as she does her make-up in the mirror. “Or at least be decent.”

I do what Dr. Pedersen tells me to do to better comprehend the other person’s perspective and visualize Dom and Tom puffing up in attempted intimidation with one another as she reasons with the wall.

“I said decent. Human!”

Mother’s end goal is now clear. She has another one of her “friends” coming over for dinner to give them a test-drive as a potential mate. But what she’s really doing is testing to see if they can tolerate me. It’s as though she doesn’t care if these are good guys that will treat her well. She simply wants to confirm that they will allow me into their world like they’re king shit.

The woman doesn’t understand tribal mechanics. As head of the household, I decide if they will be permitted into my brood. I mislike admitting it, but it is plain as day: Mummy Sweet needs to be taught another lesson. I boot up my Atari to allow for constructive focus and await the experiment’s arrival.

Just before I can prove galactical supremacy in three domains of Stellar Track, the doorbell rings. I give myself a one-over in the mirror and confirm that I am indeed dashing.

Mom’s eyes widen each into circular perfection as I step into the room—so wide that Dom and Tom go into seclusion into the warble of her forehead. It’s a pleasant rise I feel knowing I can do this to her in the presence of the new visitor. I will name him John.

I trip over the corner of the dusty rug as I approach him with my loyal crustaceans at the ready in the unlikely event that I fall.

“Hello, you must be Tim,” the stranger says, reaching out his hand, as if it is totally normal to be greeted by a teenager with a fish tank over his head, hair dripping algae onto the sofa.

Since Mom wants me to behave, a covert demand that I limit my critical thinking skills to prevent me from saying anything maladroit, I now respond in apt reciprocity to her reproach. I do so telepathically to ensure all is in accordance with her dictates: This is not a fishbowl on my head. You can clearly see I am from outer space, alighting but for a moment on planet Dweeb with the aid of my trusty helmet to protect me from the toxins afforded by this hostile environment.

I take the visitor’s proffered hand. It is sickeningly dry.

“My name is John,” he says.

John? You have got to be kidding me.

Don.

Dong.

Gong.

Schlong.

There is no way this John is going to be schlepping any of his shit in my domain. I will evacuate him from this ship, send him forthwith into the nether-regions of No Man’s Land.

I turn to Mom, her forehead still a jumbled mess as she struggles with a response. There are many shades of crazy in this family, some of which appear on her pallet as she tries to save face, offering a truly fascinating study. I think long and hard on what to say to prolong this moment now that I have her utter and rapt attention. I know what to do. I will affix windshield wipers inside my glass shield to mimic a lachrymose response to her dismay to provide a show of empathy, as Dr. Pedersen always intones is necessary when others are in crisis. Or perhaps I shall embody an exotic sea specimen, pulled unfairly from 10,000 leagues under the sea and am  therefore forlorn, lost, unaware of what to do in the face of this hostile takeover.

Yes! I will play forlorn. That tack will induce guilt upon her sex and thus return her to her (limited) senses. As I imagine the sequence of events that will play themselves out in consequence, I catch a glint of something in John’s eyes: a tentacle of some beast nestled deep in the recesses of what he likely claims to be a brain.

Then he utters a veiled threat: “Thank you for having me over.” The slimy feeler within his skull undulates, swooshing from one of his eyes into the other. And despite it, he is looking at me—me—instead of turning away or leaving as most people do when in my presence.

I cannot yet vanish this John since he is among the few who has been able to engage with me. Rather than run and hide in fear, he is willing to confront the threats I pose to his very essence. He even beholds my mittens, now lying face-to-face on the glass coffee table in a hostile tête-à-tête, and puts them on. I catch his eye and confirm indeed the presence of an alien species within. To his credit, he even raises any eyebrow at me. 

This is an enterprising fellow, someone who might actually prove worthy of being my opponent and allow for some modicum of a challenge. I consider modes of combat in which he will be permitted opportunities to flex his (purported) skills and unleash this entity hidden within. In the process, and in a show of good will, I will allow him to shine—should he abide by my Prime Directive.