My Friend Timmy: The Real Story

I got a lot of emails questioning why the lady was so mad that I talked to her kid if all I did was ask where his mom was.

Well, the truth is, I kind of edited what happened a little bit because I was embarrassed about what really happened. But what the hell. The blog is semi-anonymous. Here’s what I really said:

“What’s your name?”

“Timothy.”

“Where’s your mommy or daddy?”

No response. Then, for some reason, I thought it would be fun to try to have a real conversation with a six-year-old…

“Where do you live?” He gives me his exact address. “Wow, do you tell strangers the alarm code, too?” No response. “Well, it’s a nice neighborhood. Do you go to school?” Yes, he’s going into first grade next week. “What’s your favorite color?” Red. “Do you like dogs or cats?” He likes rabbits. “What’s your favorite ice cream?” Cherry Garcia (figures, we’re in Brentwood). “What do you like to do for fun?” Play knights and dragons. “Do you have a girlfriend?” No. “Do you like gladiator movies?”

The last question was clearly me just amusing myself, but that’s when his mom showed up and I’m pretty sure she overheard it. Again, like I said, it never even occurred to me that I would seem threatening to some kid’s mom, but I guess I am a 28-year-old creepy guy asking her kid about ice cream and girlfriends and gladiators. So in retrospect I’m lucky she didn’t call the cops.

I just don’t interact with children that much. Or ever. I forgot what the boundaries are. So better off just to make a bright-line rule: no talking to fucking kids!

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