Invisible

"When I was a young boy, I believed I could make myself invisible at will. Whenever I was stuck in a predicament that called for not being seen, or else was just in the mood to go invisible on a lark, I would squint my eyes closed as tight as I could and hold my breath until I saw multi-colored sparks and small explosions in the darkness before me. Soon after I would hear a loud popping noise, and that's when I knew I was invisible.

I did it the first time when I was four, out of some kind of collective unconscious instinct response. My mother came home unexpectedly from the store to find me naked in the kitchen, covering myself with papier mache made from pictures I'd cut out of the lingerie section of the Sears catalog. In a panic I clenched my eyes shut, and to my surprised delight heard my mother searching around the house, asking "Where's Sampson?" and "Have you seen Sampson?" while I invisibly ran out to the back yard and hid inside a discarded tire.

My talent for going invisible came in handy over the years. I used it sparingly whenever mom caught me with a girl in my room or I was pulled over for driving under the influence. I'm sure mom and dad had to wonder why naked girls kept sneaking into my bed while I was out, or how my car drove itself into a ditch so many times, but I don't think they paid it much mind since they had their hands full with Goose's Tourette's Syndrome, which at the time was known as Sailor's Mouth.

When I was seventeen my brother Goose, who I'd just caught in a compromising position with a bottle of Coke, broke down told me that I'd never really gone invisible. Turns out the family had always humored me and played along because when I closed my eyes, mom would run and empty out my piggy bank while she was pretending to look for me. Later, she'd use my allowance to take the family out for ice creams while I was at school, which explains why Goose never finished the tenth grade."

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