There was a man whose mother named him Blood because when he was born there was so much blood - or so it seemed to her alone in a wheat field in Eastern Washington. He didn't get a birth certificate until he started school. It said ``Born on or about June 16th, 1980 at or near Summerville Washington...''
The boy followed his mother through the migrant labor towns of the American west. He went to school occasionally until he was sixteen. After that he took off on his own and worked at any job he could find. He worked at logging and in the lumber mills. He worked construction. He learned to walk on stilts and sheet rock ceilings with a group of Russians and he learned their language.
When he looked at his future he did not like what he saw.
He liked the idea of computer work, so he tried to sign up at community college, but two terms in a row the classes were full and he didn't even get on the waiting list. He decided to try a school that charged him more than he thought was right. He learned so much so quickly that he surprised even himself, though he had always suspected he was smarter than most.
With a little strategic lying he got himself a job at a public utility and he did very well. He was fired for making an unauthorized change that made sense to him but lost the company a few million in some obscure way.
The next job started close to six figures. He bought a brand new Lexus and rented a fancy apartment. What he didn't like was the fact he had no one to talk to. He was pretty sure the people he worked with laughed at him behind his back. The clothes he wore, the music he liked. He'd heard two women giggling and mimicking his way of speaking. Since they were both from Bangalore he put his head over the partition and did his best rendition of their own accent. They did not see the humor.
He took a look at his future and he did not like what he saw.
He bought his mother a house in Fresno. She filled it with her brothers and sisters and cousins. When you opened the door babies rolled out. He had no one to talk to there, though someone or two or three were always talking. He no longer belonged. It was time to move on.
On the plane to Miami he wrote himself a childhood. Stable and secure. He changed his name to Scott. He wrote himself an illustrious high school career and four years at Stanford University - why not? Then he thought Gonzaga might be better. (Stanford? Come on!). It was not his plan to talk about his new early life. He wrote it for himself, and in a few years he believed it all. In his new life he was accepted, happy among good friends.
When he looked into his future he liked what he saw.