Home, to some extent, is Omaha, Nebraska. It’s where I was born and raised. For those used to flying over the areas referred to as flyovers, it’s in the middle. Like for nearly everything, geographically, demographically, entertainment-wise. Not quite politically. It’s a firm red state, but as one of only two states that split their electoral college votes, it threw one of its votes to Obama (in ’08), the first time it ever actually split the vote in history. Omaha is like a large small town. It has nearly a million people in the metro area, but I can generally run into someone I know going any place. Either I went to high school with them. Or college. Or my dad played softball with their dad. Or. Or. Or. It’s a city without a tremendous identity. It’s a lot of strip malls and average-looking houses with huge yards. Everyone has a dog. Everyone talks about their part of town based on their parish. Everyone bleeds Husker red, the Cornhuskers football team being the unofficial state everything. I only remember one distinct thing throughout the first half of my life I spent in Omaha: I do not belong here.
Category Archives: flashback
I’m not a good person. Usually. Generally. I mean, I’ve done nice things for people, and I genuinely care about people, but I’ve also made choices that for one or another will most assuredly end up with me going to hell. If hell exists, which it does not, but if I’m wrong, I’m most assuredly going to spend some time there.
At lunch, one of my friends urged me to tell this story because he thinks it’s one of my best. Clearly, he meant worst. Not because I killed anyone or anything like that, but it may demonstrate some of my less ideal tendencies.
Let me walk you through it.
We needed a plan.
We sat there, the four of us, weighing our options. They were ridiculous, for sure. But we had a mission. We would not be stopped.
“We could sneak past the alarm on the main floor,” Paula said with determination and her sweet English accent (not British. Never British.). “Then, we head out the back door and come back in through the kitchen.”
“Too complicated,” I said.
“I could fake epilepsy,” Zach offered. “I’ve done it before.”
“Asthma,” I nearly shouted. “I could do asthma.”
I demonstrated the strained and harsh breathing. Again, I wasn’t sure what this was going to do for us. Faking an illness of some sort leads to hospitals and such. Using it as a diversion in our mission seemed a bit ludicrous, but so much about this situation was.