It was an average weeknight in Birmingham when I stood atop the Vulcan statue. I was looking at the city below, standing beneath Vulcan’s massive butt cheeks.

From atop the monument, I looked at my little town, laid out before me like a quiltwork of lights and streets. There was a young couple touring the statue at the same time I was. They were maybe 19. The boy was very affectionate with her, but she didn’t seem that into him.

“I love you, darling,” the boy kept saying.

“What time is it?” she kept saying.

I leaned on the guardrail and watched 1.11 million folks beneath me, buzzing like ants in an anthill. And I wondered what they were all doing inside their little homes down there.

Were they happy? Or were they all too busy running around to figure out whether they were or weren’t? Do these people watch reality television? If so, why?

Also, why do Americans fill up their garages with worthless junk, but park expensive cars in their driveways?

Why do hotdogs come in packs of 10, but buns come in packs of eight?

Some questions will never be answered.

The Vulcan statue stands at 180 feet tall, altogether. He stands atop a pedestal high above Magic City. You can see him from all over town.

He is the Roman and Greek God of fire and the forge. Which is why the statue is made entirely of cast iron. This is also why he is butt naked. He is the largest metal statue made in the United States, which makes his buttocks the size of a small subtropical continent.

When I moved here a few years ago, friends all kept asking me, “Why Birmingham? What’s so special about Birmingham?”

At first I didn’t know how to answer them. Because I can’t explain it. Whenever people move to a new city, they usually choose a place with…

DEAR SEAN:

I’m sorry I’m emailing you cause I know you probably won’t answer this… I am in sixth grade and I don’t think my stepdad likes me cause he’s only been my stepdad for a year… But he’s not super talkative to me.

Ever since my mom has been with him I haven’t seen her because she’s always with him and not with me and I feel like I’m pretty much alone now. My real dad is not someone I know at all, so he’s pretty much nothing for us because he lives in California and never calls me or anything. I don’t know why I’m emailing. Anyway, that’s really it.

Okay, thanks,
SAD-GIRL-IN-GREENVILLE

DEAR GREENVILLE:

Let’s take a look at the American Guy.

I have here an illustrated anatomical chart of the American Guy’s brain. Yes, I realize the Guy Brain is a lot smaller than you expected.

But allow me to direct your attention to the Emotion Sector, way over here, located just above the Queso Dip sector, to the left of the Gaseous Bodily Noise sector. Notice how

small this emotional section is? Especially when this sector is compared to, for example, the Budweiser Lobe.

This tells us some important information about guys. Such as, guys are, by and large, very dumb.

I can say this because I am a guy. And therefore, I am dumb. I do not mean this negatively. It’s just a fact of nature. We are dumb compared to women, and this is just the truth.

On the Sixth Day of Creation, God took one look at man and said, “I can do better than this.” And then he did.

The problem with us guys, of course, is that we are not known for exhibiting emotions.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying that guys don’t HAVE emotions. We do. It’s just that guys only show important emotions during critical events, such…

I come from a generation whose ketchup came in glass bottles. And therein lies the fundamental difference between my generation and the current one.

Glass bottles. They were everywhere. They were the essence of life.

You walked into a restaurant, and there were glass condiment bottles sitting on tables. Usually, Heinz Ketchup. You had to bruise your palm to get the stuff out.

And when you couldn’t get the ketchup to move, you handed the bottle to your daddy and watched him invent new cuss words. This is what kept families together.

Glass packaging was the norm. We had no space-age plastic polymers. We had glass, that was all.

And glass, somehow, just made us happier. It unified us. It made us American. Glass bottles kept crime rates down, literacy rates up, and it made everyone sing the national anthem at ball games.

Which reminds me, I was at a ball game the other day when the national anthem was played. Everyone stood. Many placed hands over their hearts. But do you know

what? Very few people sang.

Actually, almost nobody sang.

All 42,000 silently listened to the singer on the field without opening their mouths. The singer was a recording artist from Nashville with three Grammys, two ESPYs, one Pulitzer, and whatever else.

The singer performed two minutes of vocal gymnastics so that it sounded like he was having a febrile seizure. And the boy in the seat next to me leaned over to his mom and said, “Which song is this again?”

You see, when I was a kid, everyone sang the “Star Spangled Banner.” That’s just how it was. We learned it in school. We SANG it in school. We knew all the words.

So you sang the anthem at games. You didn’t let anyone else sing it for you. Before ballgames, my grandfather would carefully balance his cigar on his beer, my father would remove his…

The Alabama game was on. The Crimson Tide was beating Texas, and my heart sang.

We were at a family reunion. I was sitting on a porch overlooking the Choctawhatchee Bay of my youth. There were people everywhere. The weather was coolish, but not unpleasant. Many of the family members were devout Baptists. Others were Methodists, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

Family members were mingling, cheering for the game, telling old stories. Because that’s what family reunions are for. Storytelling.

And the memories were getting so thick you had to swat them away like gnats.

There were a lot of empty chairs at today’s gathering. The mean age of the attendees was much younger than in years past, which gave a touch of melancholy to the air. Because all the good ones are gone.

I had checked out, mentally. I was staring at the old pier where I had one of my first dates with my wife, a few decades ago.

I remember it clearly. She wore pink. I don’t know what I had on, but I was trying out a new cologne that night,

purchased on clearance from TJMaxx. My date kept gagging whenever she came too close.

“Why are you gagging?” I asked.

“I think someone spilled some gasoline on your shoes,” she answered.

We sat on a swing built for two. We looked at the water. We held each other and I asked if it would be okay if I kissed her.

There was a long silence.

She said, “Most boys don’t usually ask that sort of thing before they do it.”

“They don’t?”

“No.”

“Well then what do most boys do?”

She shrugged. “Normally they sense the right moment and they just go for it.”

I said nothing.

She said nothing.

“But,” I asked, “what if the boy’s senses are a little off?”

She smiled. Probably because I smelled like a crude petroleum product.

“Yes,” she finally…

Erin has a guardian angel. A real one.

This supernatural cherub was a gift from her mother, long ago. It all started when Erin was six years old. Her dying mother called Erin to her sickbed, said a prayer, and gifted her daughter an angel. Simple as that.

After her mother passed, Erin was raised by her grandmother in a ramshackle house near the railroad tracks. Times were not easy. Her grandmother was a single parent, and kids ain’t cheap. Simple as that.

“We ate a lot of Hamburger Helper,” said Erin. “And we shopped at thrift stores.”

But an angel is worth a lot more than greenbacks. Especially an angel like hers, who has made himself evident at pivotal moments throughout her life.

There was the time in elementary school when Erin fell off a low balcony at her friend’s house. When she opened her eyes, she was in no pain. The doc couldn’t believe what he saw. Not a bone broken.

There was the time in high school when she was driving on

the interstate. A voice inside Erin said, “Take the exit, and wait at the gas station.”

She did. On that same highway, on that same night, an auto collision occurred involving an eighteen-wheeler. Four people died.

There was the time when Erin was engaged to a young man whom she thought she loved. The wedding was fast approaching, but something inside her said, “This is wrong. Do not marry him.”

She called off the ceremony, simple as that.

Erin gave back the wedding gifts. She returned the ring. And many years later, Erin realizes she made the right call. The man she might have married has already been remarried thrice.

Another time, she was in an apartment building visiting a friend. There was a man in the hallway who looked suspicious. He was standing too close to her.

When Sarah brushed past him, the man’s…

This is not my story. But it was told to me by an old man who lived it.

The year is 1987. Rural Alabama. Our main character is a young kid. He’s at a remote gas station. He tries to start his car, but it’s a no go. The car is deader than disco.

So he’s sitting on the hood of his ‘73 Piece Of Junkola when an old guy at the next pump notices there’s something odd about this kid.

Namely, the kid is wearing a tux.

The old guy is wearing a cowboy hat. There is a horse trailer attached to his Ford. There are horses in the trailer, on their way to a rodeo.

The old guy is in a hurry. He has to be in Missouri by tomorrow, or else they’ll dock his pay. He knows he should leave the gas station now, without asking questions. Because questions lead to “things,” and the old man doesn’t have time for extra “things.”

But, as I say, the kid is in a tux.

So the old guy asks a question.

“Car trouble?”

The

kid tells him yes, and he says he knows it’s the alternator. He had planned on getting it fixed, but he didn’t have the money. So he has been driving his Crap Mobile around town. But tonight was, evidently, the night the car went to be with Jesus.

“Why are you in a tux?” the old guy asks.

“Because I’m the best man.”

“Best at what?”

“It's a wedding. My brother’s getting married.”

The kid looks like he is about to cry.

The sun is setting. The Alabama countryside never looked so green. In the air, the smell of horse turds.

“Where’s the church?” the man asks.

“Mobile.”

“MOBILE?!” The man laughs.

The kid buries his face in his hands.

“Do you have anyone you can call? Anyone who will give you a ride that…

I am in Avondale Park. It’s a sunny day in Birmingham. Pollen is in the air. Allergies are rampant today.

There is an 11-year-old girl in my arms. She smells like shampoo and flowers. The girl’s name is Becca. She is blind.

I am lifting her upward. I am placing her onto a pedestal so that she can use her hands to feel a massive bronze sculpture inasmuch as she really wants to know what this statue “looks” like.

The statue is a depiction of Miss Fancy, the 8,000-pound elephant who once lived in this park about 100 years ago. Back when this place was a zoo. Miss Fancy attracted the attention of an entire city. She has become somewhat of a fascination with me, since I live in Avondale.

For years now, I have been visiting this park, researching Miss Fancy’s life. I have even been lucky enough to interview a few surviving souls who remember her. I am constantly on the lookout for elders who might remember her.

As a result, I have

found many stories about this old elephant. I never thought these stories would come in handy with an 11-year-old girl.

But they have.

I have been telling the little girl about Miss Fancy all afternoon. And she is extremely interested in this elephant.

So I’ve been retelling these tales using my best grandpa voice, trying to make the stories interesting.

Truthfully, I feel a little foolish, telling stories to a child. Namely, because I don’t know how to tell stories to a child. I know nothing about kids.

My wife and I were told a long time ago we couldn’t have kids. Honestly, I wasn’t that broken up about it. For starters, I had a godawful childhood. My father was abusive and died by suicide when I was a kid.

I was raised on the wrong side of the tracks by a single mother. I…

It was dark. The young dishwasher was on break. He was sitting behind the restaurant, out by the Dumpster, tapping a carton of Camels on his palm.

Like all dishwashers, he worked hard for junk pay. He was the first one there. The last one to leave. He bussed the tables. Scrubbed the kitchen. He was also the guy who cleaned the deep fryer.

Verily I say unto thee, no man hath truly known hell until he hath cleaned a deep fryer.

That night, our hero was exhausted when he saw something nosing around the Dumpster. It was a puppy.

Brown coat. Skinny. The dog was bleeding. Cut to shreds. Like the little guy had been in a fight. Gashes on his young face. An open wound on his chest.

“Here boy,” said our hero, stepping on his cigarette. “Come here.”

Our hero had been in 4-H during some of his youth. If there is one thing 4-H kids know, it’s how to be calm and confident around animals.

Our hero, you

see, was raised as a foster child in Wisconsin. He had no parents. No grandparents. No aunts, no uncles. No nobody. A local youth organization had sponsored his entrance into a 4-H club. And the training never leaves you.

The dog was timid. Untrusting. But with enough patented 4-H patience, our hero won him over. The young man adopted him. He named him Rufus.

The first night, Rufus slept by the front door. Rufus had spent most of the evening cowering in the corner and trembling. Whenever his new friend tried to pet him, he began yelping and peeing on himself.

So the first night, our hero slept on the kitchen floor with the animal. He spent eight hours holding the animal in his arms. The next night, our hero lined the kitchen with quilts and pillows, and he slept there again.

Over time, Rufus began to trust…

Dunkin’ Donuts. Not long ago. I was standing in line, trying to buy some doughnuts and, God willing, 16 ounces of street-legal caffeine.

People in line were growing impatient. Service was exceptionally slow. Customers were just standing around.

I was waiting to place my order at the register. And apparently I was the only person attempting to physically place an order. Everyone else had already ordered on their phones.

Which made me feel like Grandpa-Saurus Rex. Namely, because I do not place fast-food orders on a phone. Frankly, I have not figured out how to use my phone.

Yesterday, for example, I spent 20 minutes dialing my wife’s number before I realized I was using the calculator app.

That’s when I noticed the kid in line behind me. She was maybe 20, carrying a huge backpack.

Her clothes were ragged. She had tattoos all over. She smelled like sweat, and she was covered in scabs.

She stood on her tiptoes to inspect the rack of doughnuts. The kid looked hungry.

“Having trouble deciding?” an older woman customer asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied. “Don’t know

what to buy.”

“Buy a few of everything. That’s what I usually do.”

“Can’t afford everything,” said the girl. “I only got a couple bucks.”

The young woman’s toes were showing through holes in her shoes.

“How about the apple fritter?” the young woman asked. “Is that good?”

“It’s decent,” the woman replied. “It won’t change your life, but it’s good.”

“Chocolate glazed?” asked the kid.

“Out of five stars, I give it seven.”

The girl smiled. “When I was a kid, Mom used to always get chocolate glazed. They were her favorite.”

“I hate to break it to you,” the old lady said. “But you’re still a kid.”

The woman paused for a beat. Then she did, “Where is your mom now?”

“Mom lives in Georgia. I grew up in Atlanta. Moved here with…

It was a sunny morning when Becca arrived on our porch with her suitcase fully packed. She was wearing Converse Chuck Taylors. Her hair was in ribbons. Her suitcase was purple. Becca is 11.

“I’m ready for our trip to Georgia,” she announced.

Becca is blind. We were taking a road trip to Leesburg, Georgia, where Becca and I would be performing together. Her parents were planning on using this opportunity to enjoy their first kid-free weekend since the Carter Administration.

Her parents, exceptional people who have fostered upwards of 35 children, dropped Becca off on our porch with a mound of luggage, toys, snacks, apple juice, and very specific instructions: “Do not call us unless you are in the ER.”

So we loaded our van, and within moments we were on the road.

Becca spent most of the time in the back seat, singing. Becca has a lot of enthusiasm. In fact, calling Becca an “energetic 11-year-old” would be like calling Santa Claus an “okay guy.”

We began our journey, serenaded

by a kid-centric, dance-intensive playlist of music played at a volume loud enough to crack our windshield.

Our playlist included “Hey Mickey” by Toni Basil. Becca danced and clapped in the backseat. Next came “Who Let the Dogs Out” by the Baha Men. Then, “Electric Avenue” by Eddy Grant. “Footloose,” by Kenny Loggins. “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor. “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, played at a volume loud enough to split Japanese Steel. We were not even out of our driveway.

Somewhere around Montgomery, Becca had to pee.

“Can we pull over,” said Becca, matter-of-factly, who was rocking in her seat, doing the universal dance of the loaded bladder.

My wife and I looked at each other. We are middle-aged working stiffs who do not have kids. Moreover, as far as I know, my wife has never accompanied a blind child to the bathroom.

We pulled over.