I cannot apologize enough, patient stranger, for the unfortunate incident in your backyard. Yes, you’ve told me a hundred times to stay out of your pool. Yes, you’ve ordered me away from your tool shed a time or two. Yes, it was a bad idea for me to move into your kid’s treehouse. I see that now. And I apologize.

The problem, you have to understand, is that I don’t have a hangout. Not a downtown pole to lean against, not a park bench where all the pigeons know my name.

I crave a hangout. I NEED a hangout. I’ve always had one, don’t have one now. It’s starting to get to me, which is why you may find me in your breakfast nook when I wasn’t invited.

Are you going to eat that croissant, by the way? Because I didn’t get nearly enough sausage.

I think you know what I mean. I think you’re probably sitting in your favorite hangout even now, reading the paper while your buddies play cards at a nearby table. Scrolling through the morning news online while your roommate stands at the counter ordering espressos. Perhaps you’re hiding out at the bar this morning while your wife thinks you’re off looking for a job. Very sneaky, bub. Would it kill you to invite me along?

Every damn body has a hangout. Cops have the gym where they blast music, pump iron and brag about punks they took down. Firefighters have their stations, places to play cards and watch movies between fires and car wrecks.

Yuppies have their coffeehouses and the secret language that goes with it. Grande means big; venti means bigger. They order frappucinos, sit in plush leather chairs, and communicate with one another through inter-cranial Bluetooth technology. They sync up and listen to music that can only be heard by those who have had just the right amount of caramel macchiato.

Tough guys have all kinds of hangouts. There’s the alley downtown where they toss pennies and scribble on walls. There’s the pool hall, the dive bar, the bowling alley. Hoodlums are experts at hanging out and I admire them for it.

Kids have the skate parks, machine heads have garage bays, old people have bingo.

You have people hanging out at the comic-book stores and speaking exclusively in Vulcan. You have huge groups geeking together in online forums, discussing things like overclocking and motherboard chipsets.

Chronic gamblers congregate at the track, real or cyber. They watch the ponies, smoke and talk about anything other than the fact that they just wagered their kids’ braces money and lost.

In Lewiston, you’ll find cliques hanging out in Kennedy Park with soccer balls or baby carriages. In Auburn, you can hang out with the walkers and be healthy, or chum with the vagabonds at Moulton Park.

When I was a lad, we hung out at D & A Billiards in Waterville. We played pinball and looked for someone to buy us beer. Later, we moved on to the pits behind the armory where we rode dirt bikes and had keg parties. Then there was the basement bar at the Concourse where we were such frequent patrons, they let us run tabs.

Look at me now. All grown up and married with a full-time job and crap. Just the one hook on which to hang my hat. I’m like a Plinko chip that lands in the same slot every single time.

Sad, isn’t it?

I’m glad you think so. When I show up unannounced at your Wednesday night poker game, maybe you’ll understand. When I show up in drag for your wife’s Scentsy party, maybe you won’t be so quick to have me booted.

Are you going to eat that last deviled egg, by the way? I didn’t get nearly enough bruschetta.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can send hangout invites to [email protected].