Woody Brown  So, you know, imagine this is one of your formative
memories. Your dad takes you to soccer practice in Delaware Park
in his maroon city-issue Crown Vic. And you, being you, hate it
of course. You don't like the fact that you're so young they put
girls and boys on the same team, that practice starts when you
would otherwise be resting and thinking small you-thoughts and
conversing with Matthias, the fictional mouse friend you made up
one day while sitting in your seat on the 214 cheese bus because
the bus aid Betty made you turn off your father's walkman and
Queen cassette (both of which he lent you because, in his words,
he loves you) because she said it was electronic paraphernalia,
and for that reason and because so many shows mom lets you watch
before bed and books from your father mention kids with
imaginary friends and because you figure you're still young
enough that it'd be mostly excusable to talk to yourself, you
have made yourself an imaginary friend, and anyway you might be
talking to