The Danger Of Walking The Babysitter Past The Elephant Zone
Ingredients to a highball: 1.5 ounces of whiskey, with ginger ale and ice, frigidly ready by 5 p.m. That is all I require for optimal functionality. That, and Ed Sullivan. The secrets that I have carried with me, like fragments of a torn love note, I have carried.. and carried. And like a man about to be administered Last Rites, I seek confession. Shall I confess my secrets?
Gladys sees none of this. She is in the kitchen. For Christmas, I bought her a new Fridigaire. A new one, with automatic defrost. She will be happy for a month.
The babysitter will arrive in an hour. A tie; I must wear a tie. Which tie? There is danger in even the smallest nuance. Every act must be rationed, because the slightest choice conveys a message. Shall I put on Perry Como? Or Nat? Will she think me too middle-aged if I play them?
Does she appreciate the extra 5-spot that I slip her at the end of the evening when she vanishes like a whippet out the door into the darkness? To her boyfriend, perhaps, or to her Beatles, spinning, as I imagine, on her pink kiddy record player on her bookcase, and her lamps and teddy bears?
Where is my TV Guide? The movie that I read about last month does not exist. Last night I spent an hour digging through back issues in search of it. I swear I saw it. Or did I dream it? It involved a man who stood in his living room. His daughter was about to leave for a date. As the date entered the house, the father felt the chill of immediate disapproval. So, he grabbed the young man by his jacket and pulled him out the door. Outside, the streetlamps were just coming on. I want to talk to you, he said. And then there was a growl, from the bushes, and a rustling. It the unmistakeable sound of a panther.
The man worked in a building in a job that involved fastening ceiling tiles with jagged screws. He worked 11 to 7 each night, and fought the onrush of sleep that threatened each night at 2 a.m. Sleep could mean death--death from falling, death from attack, in the blackness of the jungle.
The man had been warned by the shaman of the danger of walking the babysitter past the elephant zone.
Gladys sees none of this. She is in the kitchen. For Christmas, I bought her a new Fridigaire. A new one, with automatic defrost. She will be happy for a month.
The babysitter will arrive in an hour. A tie; I must wear a tie. Which tie? There is danger in even the smallest nuance. Every act must be rationed, because the slightest choice conveys a message. Shall I put on Perry Como? Or Nat? Will she think me too middle-aged if I play them?
Does she appreciate the extra 5-spot that I slip her at the end of the evening when she vanishes like a whippet out the door into the darkness? To her boyfriend, perhaps, or to her Beatles, spinning, as I imagine, on her pink kiddy record player on her bookcase, and her lamps and teddy bears?
Where is my TV Guide? The movie that I read about last month does not exist. Last night I spent an hour digging through back issues in search of it. I swear I saw it. Or did I dream it? It involved a man who stood in his living room. His daughter was about to leave for a date. As the date entered the house, the father felt the chill of immediate disapproval. So, he grabbed the young man by his jacket and pulled him out the door. Outside, the streetlamps were just coming on. I want to talk to you, he said. And then there was a growl, from the bushes, and a rustling. It the unmistakeable sound of a panther.
The man worked in a building in a job that involved fastening ceiling tiles with jagged screws. He worked 11 to 7 each night, and fought the onrush of sleep that threatened each night at 2 a.m. Sleep could mean death--death from falling, death from attack, in the blackness of the jungle.
The man had been warned by the shaman of the danger of walking the babysitter past the elephant zone.
posted by The Reluctant Muse at 7:32 PM
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