My name is Chance. My parents came up with it nine months before I was born. 

I’m less than an hour from the house I grew up in. Yet, I’m a lifetime away from home. That door’s been closed many times. Now it’s sealed. I’d be trespassing. It feels like life spun me in circles. I can’t figure out which is mine.

My mother got sick when I was in high school. I was doing well up ‘til then. When I found out she had cancer, a switch flipped. I figured, if she died, I could get away with anything. Who would I care about disappointing? 

I got right to it. Prescriptions for stimulants and anti-depressants. I dosed myself with adderall and mushrooms. My friends grew weed. Every day was a drug cocktail. 

The cancer got worse in her and me. Eventually, I stopped coming home. I’d spend months at my friends’ houses. The ones with “cool parents”. I got suspended a few times. None of that interfered. My mother’s dying.

Until she got better. 

I was in the hallway waiting to be interviewed by police for my latest possession with intent to distribute on school grounds when I got the text, “Mom’s going to be ok!”. I felt ill.

The first thing she told me when she got back was, “I beat cancer. Now you’re going to kill me with a broken heart.” Something about that set me off. Our makeup hug felt fake. She moved on. I was her little grape. Now I’m her sour old raisin.

I lived at home for a year or two longer. Eventually my father got sick of funding my degeneracy. We had a shouting match. He told me not to come back. I caught a few trains. Loitered under shaded real estate. Taking photos with my mind. Arkansas was my favorite. Maybe New Orleans.

It’s been a few years. I’m twenty-five now. I tried to float my liver on the beach. In the desert. Even the mountain men rejected me. It’s been a few months since I got back to New Jersey. I’ve been staying near the train station in Morristown. It’s heated in the wintertime. 

Someone must’ve gone through my bag while I was sleeping. My decoy iPhone box, dead rat contraption got ‘em good. An old timer taught me that one in Baton Rouge. Serves them right.

My only concern these days is staying healthy and in shape. In case I have to go to prison. I wouldn’t mind prison if I was guaranteed to have polite cellmates. I could catch up on reading.

Some days, I wish a meteor would take us all out. Or a war would start. The kind where young men like myself are plucked from the streets. An invasion, preferably. I wanted to be a military man. Like my father. I used to picture myself with a big beard, living in a nice blue house on a hill.

I’ve had work. I used to linger around AA meetings for the coffee and donuts. One night, I met this guy who let me work for his construction company. It was a good gig until the summer. Summer’s meant to be spent relaxing. So I quit. 

I think about running away and starting fresh somewhere new. I don’t have enough money to get a passport and go to another country. I doubt another country would be much better anyway.

Other days, I pray my mom will stroll down Main Street and see me. Sleeping on a bench. Or begging for a cigarette from the businessmen at Wolfgang’s. I used to worry she wouldn’t recognize me. That’s nonsense. I look more like myself than I ever did. 

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Matthew Panzarino is a confusing guy from New Jersey. @mattpastapino on X