Happy birthday to me

I got my birthday off to an early start before work, even had a chance to take one last peek at my wishlist. I gazed at the top item, a new inkless pen that actually uses a special metal to oxidize the paper in order to write. It still amazes me. Like, holy shit! What century is this? Did Scotty finally beam me up? Am I Woody Allen in “Sleepers”?

So by the time I wrapped up daydreaming, the head start I started with turned into a last-minute dash to gather my things, and perform my morning pocket tap.

Wallet? Check.

Phone? Check.

Keys? No check.

My son was sitting at the table, giving me that look that just oozes, “I know something you don’t.”

Know something about my kid before I continue. I love my son, of course. He’s mine, and I’ll always be there for him. But he’s clever and he thinks he’s a magician. His favorite trick? Now you see it, now you don’t. We stopped that game the night when Sparky didn’t come running for dinner.

“Graham, have you seen my keys?”

“No.” He said, smiling like only the Joker could.

“Are you sure?”

“Uh huh.”

“Graham.”

“What?”

“You’re hiding something.”

“No I’m not!”

“What’s in there?” I said approaching his seat and lunging for his half-opened backpack.”

“Dad, give me back my backpack! That’s mine!”

I hurriedly unzipped the bag, holding it high above his scrambling reach. I reached in, and felt my hand form perfectly around a well-balanced metal object that could only be one thing.

“Honey!” my wife yells across the house. “I found your keys in the bedroom. Happy Birthday! Graham’s got a special present for you this year!”