We lost a smidge of tread on the back tire of the car carrier.

You can file this journal under, “I spell paranoid I-K-N-O-W-Y-O-U-A-R-E-U-P-T-O-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G.”

My son, Trevor, and I drove to his college last week in a rental truck loaded with old furniture for his first off-campus apartment. Not sure if you caught that. I said HIS FIRST APARTMENT! Sophomores have to live off campus. He couldn’t be happier. I feel ill.

I spent the trip lecturing him on the evils of college girls and he spent the two-day trip not listening to me.

This guy said his name was Sonny. He sold us some drinks and sandwiches in Arkansas.

Other than that (and the high speed blow-out we had on the freeway) the big move went rather smoothly. Too smoothly, as far as I’m concerned.

Once in Collegetown, USA, we hit Home Depot, did some painting, hit Home Depot, moved the furniture in… and around, hit Home Depot, toured the campus and met some of his friends.

We also went to Home Depot. It’s a lot like Lowe’s but with a bad paint scheme.

Trevor has inhaled a lot of paint fumes.

The whole campus experience was so pleasant it scared the crap out of me. I have a sixth sense about such matters. Things are never what they seem. Right? That’s not rhetorical. I’m asking.

Anyway, Trevor claims he has two roommates: Matt… and his imaginary friend Wade. Matt is a real person. I think he and Trevor invented “Wade” to screw with me. Never saw him. Never saw Matt or Trevor talk to him on the phone. He has no clothes in his closet. No bed. There’s still time for him to materialize… move-in week has just begun. But my gut tells me “Wade” is code for something. I don’t know what, but I’ll get to the bottom of it all soon enough.

Me, Matt and Trevor eat pasta during break time.

I’ll phone the school in a week or two and see if the imaginary Wade is registered for classes. Then we’ll see who squirms, buster!

Matt, who I have tangible proof exists, is a slim, eight and a half foot tall white kid with an afro. He respectfully calls me Mr. Redding, which makes me suspicious.

Matt eats like you’d expect a juvenile Sasquatch to eat. Seriously. I watched him inhale a mountain of pasta and 17 meatballs and then wipe drool from his chin as a chubby three-legged cat limped by. I’m pretty sure everything looks like food to him. Especially the slowest of a herd.

Trevor, neighbor (and baker) Jocelyn and a guy who says he is NOT Wade.

Trevor’s neighbor, Jocelyn, kindly baked us a chocolate/pudding/cake/mousse dish that was delicious…. but only made me more suspicious. Come on! These kids are just toooooooo nice. What sort of tool, I mean fool, do they think I am? Why aren’t they like the disrespectful little brain-dead clones on MTV?

The whole thing is off kilter. And I don’t like it.

So I’m sending out this warning to Trevor and Matt and Casper the friendly “Wade”: I know what you’re up to… and I know where to find you. Well… not you Wade. If you exist.

Sasquatch sighting!

Okay, I have to hop a plane home to Charlotte.

Boys, don’t do anything I did.

Mike Redding