I've talked a lot about my childhood, but what I haven't mentioned is that it wasn't very long.

See, I was a big kid. I got to six foot tall when I was just 12 years old.

So when adults saw me, they assumed I was one of them, expected more from me even though

I still had the emotions of a child.

And other kids my age were intimidated, because I looked like I could rough them up, and

none of that was fair, or true.

But there you have it.

It felt like I didn't have a spot in the world, no matter who I was with. You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this.

Well, I want you to know how deeply I identify with the story I'm going to share today.

I heard this tale when I was on Long Island a few summers ago, on a vacation with a few of my

writer friends from New York. I got in a town in the afternoon and settled in a bit before taking a

solo drive to the beach to get the lay of the land. On my way, I watched the sprawl of classic

suburbia roll on by. Long Island was where that suburban prototype began, you know.

Cookie cutter houses, cute blocks of lawn, and families doing their damnness to fit into the mold of the time.

Anyway, on my way to the beach, I drove through a stretch of neighborhood that didn't look so classic.

In fact, it looked so wrong that I slammed on the

brakes and stared at it in shock. It was in ruins. Houses knocked down and debris littered the

streets, almost as if I'd stumble into a war zone. In the center of the road, there was one man

who was sweeping. Yeah, tidying up a disaster zone with just a few bristles,

like some kind of Long Island Sisyphus.

Rolled down my window and I called out to him,

peppering him with questions like,

...