Anywhere But Here

I submit for you a collection of my thoughts:

"In my last letter to you, dear Scott Johnson Elementary School, I left you a luridly detailed map of my thoughts on your wards. Their sensual, youthful figures, flitting across the playground – like little nymphs – no doubt a marker of their futures to come."

"Dear Daily Dedicated Newspaper: you described me aptly, as an intelligent
figure. I was amused that you steered the topic from heralding my evil nature to assuring parents that this was as good an excuse as any to step up security. For all you know, I am a parent, sending those letters – exactly for that response. For all you know, I could be seeking attention, and not really a pedophile – such a horrid word – at all."

Peeee-doh-file. Anywhere but here – let there not be a predator in our midst. Think of the children! But, it’s not really about them; it's all about the pervert, lurking in the sidelines. It can be great fun, if you know where and how to apply it.

"Mother, mother, need you remind me of your dislike for me?"

I tap my little yellow pencil against this desk, plotting out more thoughts to share. I'm incomplete, my opus still untapped. Alone, in this dark corner of my basement, my rickety desk awaiting my word – I sit, thinking of the glee I could inspire within myself at the next visit to a post office box. Tap, tap, tap. It sounds rather like the ticking of a clock: slow, methodic. A metronome for my innermost music.

Nabokov was a fool. I hated his portrayal of an unlikable sap, being sucked in by a devilish child. Both of them were nasty little people. Me? I know that I'm average-looking; I'm aware that children don't seek out adults for my breed of attention. The difference between me, and the guys on Oprah is that I don't really give a rat's ass about the aftermath. Ah, but still, Lolita – such a disappointing story. Does its brilliance lay in the fact that neither character is likable, or relatable? Did Nabokov flip the bird on his reader, hoping to relay a reality he sensed from afar? Sometimes, I think that man was one of us.

We Who Peek At Children.

Yes.

The pencil counts down the time. It reminds me of the work still ahead. So many letters, so little time.

"Dear staff (of Cassidy Elementary School): have you checked the field lately? I have been waiting there, in behind the sweet pea growth. I enjoy the cover it provides, for my collective trips to covet your wee ones. A fence with such fine vines allows me the time to peer at your smallest students. Their forming legs, pumping with exuberance during play.. oh, dear staff.. how wild that is to witness."

Not quite good enough, is it? It doesn't get at the heart of my being.

I playfully poke at my arm, with the graphite. It leaves dots, marking my plots.

"Ah, my regards, Denise Lawler, for being such an excellent principal. Would you feel so successful, if I, a mere man, were to confess my innermost daydreams? I often find the allure of small girls inviting – don't you? Their company is so sweet, and compelling. Their trust is mine to shatter – yours is to build it, mine is to make them women."

I often picture profilers joking about me. "He listens to Oingo Boingo, I bet. Maybe he's a teacher, wishing for a little 'Don't Stand So Close To Me' action." I neither sing along to Danny Elfman, nor do I enjoy Sting's little foray in to sympathizing with the world of forbidden love. Love; that's not what this is about. Cops presume that I have a massive porn collection. I have no Wittle Wet Ones, or any hidden stashes of Kiddie Porn on my rarely-used computer. I find real encounters to be much more rewarding.

The pencil pauses, a thought dawning: ahh, a letter to the cops! Sure, why not. It worked out for the Zodiac. Jack. Yeah. I turn to my typewriter, boiling with a coiled sense of content.

"Salut, Concerned Coppers: here I am, addressing my thoughts to you. I hope that they entertain you as much as they do for me. Don't you sometimes fantasize about tender female fingers, feeling for you? I do. I love the idea of a girl – one of 5, or 6, say – holding my hand. The raw potential is there. Do I lead this sheep astray, or do I take her completely away? It's up to you, my fine law enforcers. Her name is Sally, I saw her today; sweet little Bo-Peep, a ribbon in her hair. Her little braids were frayed; I wanted to tidy them, but, she was a cautious young morsel. No matter; you know children. A good cover story is still a good cover for an undercover operation. I have my ass covered. Do you?"

Tick, tick, tick, the pencil is at is again. What other didos shall I spread? I have stamps in abundance. My typewriter is prepped. My rubber gloves are all set. Thank God for shows like CSI, and Bones. I love getting tips, wherever they originate. Yes, those fine prime-time tales of woe and criminal blunder. I am almost worthy of such scrutiny. I enjoy the burst of havoc that I wreak; I enjoy sowing so that I may reap
.
I bet you're thinking, "He lives with his mom – no wonder he's all wrong in his head." Wrong; I live alone – how else would I bring my droll guests home? I bet you think I'm sick, mad, dangerous even. I like to think of myself as a public servant. I provide a pivotal role in society. Someone's gotta be the bad-guy wrestler.

"Walter, Walter, Walter…"

Ahh. Don’t worry, that's not my name. My alarm. The ringtone comes from a popular 90s children's show. Ahh, technology, making amusing memories accessible once more. Cell phones are dandy. And, oh-so handy. This alarm tells me that it's time to get up and engage my playdate with Sally. Little Sally Bo-Peep lost all her sheep.

And I'm just the wolf to help her to go find them.