back logged - 7.17.08
I'm woken up early by sunlight steaming through the bedroom’s four big windows. Looking at the clock, I roll over to the other side of the big white bed and lay my head down on one of the six pillows strewn all over. It would be easy to close my eyes and in moments, fall back into a comfortable sleep.
But I do not yet have a solid grasp on my work hours or expectations so I pull myself out of the nest. Without throwing on day clothes, showering or brushing my hair, I walk through the hall into the adjacent kitchen to see two pajama-clad little girls sitting perched at the table. Markers lay everywhere and the tiny blond girls work intently- turning empty Little Mermaids and puppy dogs Technicolor. Tess looks up at me.
Morning girls.
Tess jumps out of her chair. Becca! She comes up to my hip and smiles, here two front teeth missing. Roos simply nods and continues her work. I look around. There mother must still be asleep.
What shall we play? Tess, the eager one, asks. Shall we play a game?
Wait a minute, I think. My mind still foggy from sleep, not quite ready for the day’s adventures. Can’t we sip some coffee first and talk about our evenings?
I don’t know, Tess. Maybe we can play a little later. How ‘bout I color with you?
OK!
She hands me a coloring book, but Roos protests. That’s my coloring book!
Tess looks at me nervously. It’s too early for bickering and she knows it.
Could I use it? I ask Roos sweetly.
We can share. She says, and pushed the box of markers my way.
The girls haven’t yet eaten their breakfast. Is this something I ought to prepare? I feel the urgency to act – to do my job as the caretaker. But when I ask them if they want to eat, the nod their heads in protest. No? OK.
Can I ask you what?
It’s can I ask you something? I remind Tess the proper English. She repeats her question again using ‘what.’
What are us doing today?
Just then their mother clad in a white bathrobe, cigarettes in hand, cell phone in the other walks through the door.
I slept in, she announces, smiling. She sets a coffee mug under the espresso machine. She pulls two bowls out of the cabinet and fills them with Chocopuffs and milk. When she sets them in front of the girls, they eat up, and I wonder, should I have done that? There are so many things I can potentially do wrong. I scoop up the markers and put them away. If there’s one thing I can always do right, it’s keep things tidy. That much I know.
As I watch the girls eat, their mother sets up her computer in the other room. She’s working from home this morning. This means I have the added challenge of entertaining two girls who aren’t willing to listen to anyone but Mom while Mom is around. I wish she would just go to the office and work like normal lawyer. After emptying the dish washer, I clean up their cereal bowls and scoop the tea bags and cigarette butts from the sink.
The children grow rowdier by the second. They throw the pillows of various shapes and sizes onto the floor and attempt to craft them into a satisfactory fort on the couch. They don’t take nearly as much care as I did when I was young at the task at hand. They clumsily prop one pillow, the roof, over two others, the walls- then climb underneath.
Too their astonishment, the flimsy structure crumbles to the ground. No! They scream artificial whining voices that could make anyone wince.
You did it Roos!
Nu uh! It was youuu.
But I do not yet have a solid grasp on my work hours or expectations so I pull myself out of the nest. Without throwing on day clothes, showering or brushing my hair, I walk through the hall into the adjacent kitchen to see two pajama-clad little girls sitting perched at the table. Markers lay everywhere and the tiny blond girls work intently- turning empty Little Mermaids and puppy dogs Technicolor. Tess looks up at me.
Morning girls.
Tess jumps out of her chair. Becca! She comes up to my hip and smiles, here two front teeth missing. Roos simply nods and continues her work. I look around. There mother must still be asleep.
What shall we play? Tess, the eager one, asks. Shall we play a game?
Wait a minute, I think. My mind still foggy from sleep, not quite ready for the day’s adventures. Can’t we sip some coffee first and talk about our evenings?
I don’t know, Tess. Maybe we can play a little later. How ‘bout I color with you?
OK!
She hands me a coloring book, but Roos protests. That’s my coloring book!
Tess looks at me nervously. It’s too early for bickering and she knows it.
Could I use it? I ask Roos sweetly.
We can share. She says, and pushed the box of markers my way.
The girls haven’t yet eaten their breakfast. Is this something I ought to prepare? I feel the urgency to act – to do my job as the caretaker. But when I ask them if they want to eat, the nod their heads in protest. No? OK.
Can I ask you what?
It’s can I ask you something? I remind Tess the proper English. She repeats her question again using ‘what.’
What are us doing today?
Just then their mother clad in a white bathrobe, cigarettes in hand, cell phone in the other walks through the door.
I slept in, she announces, smiling. She sets a coffee mug under the espresso machine. She pulls two bowls out of the cabinet and fills them with Chocopuffs and milk. When she sets them in front of the girls, they eat up, and I wonder, should I have done that? There are so many things I can potentially do wrong. I scoop up the markers and put them away. If there’s one thing I can always do right, it’s keep things tidy. That much I know.
As I watch the girls eat, their mother sets up her computer in the other room. She’s working from home this morning. This means I have the added challenge of entertaining two girls who aren’t willing to listen to anyone but Mom while Mom is around. I wish she would just go to the office and work like normal lawyer. After emptying the dish washer, I clean up their cereal bowls and scoop the tea bags and cigarette butts from the sink.
The children grow rowdier by the second. They throw the pillows of various shapes and sizes onto the floor and attempt to craft them into a satisfactory fort on the couch. They don’t take nearly as much care as I did when I was young at the task at hand. They clumsily prop one pillow, the roof, over two others, the walls- then climb underneath.
Too their astonishment, the flimsy structure crumbles to the ground. No! They scream artificial whining voices that could make anyone wince.
You did it Roos!
Nu uh! It was youuu.
Hey girlies, you know what today is?
What today is?
Today’s ‘no crying day' and also ‘no fighting day’ that way we can have the most fun! K?
OK!
They attempt a futile patch job. Silly girls. Did I know how to make a fort at not-quite-six? Maybe I was older. My memories of before eight years old are few. Eventually I can’t just sit their and watch. These girls need a serious fort-building tutor.
You really don’t know anything about building a fort, huh? I proclaim.
What we need is at least one blanket, I state matter-of-factly. Now I have their attention. Roos runs to pull one from her bed. I show them how to tuck the blanket into drawers, pull it over chairs and secure it tightly with pillows as weight. Their eyes begin to glow.
We need another blanket, I say like a doctor asking for a scalpel. They’re all-too-ready to fetch. Their mother looks up from her computer, shooting a disapproving eye our way- as if to say, what a mess you are making! But what do I care? It’s keeping the little girls on my side and I’m the one who has to clean up, anyway. When their heaven-in-a-living room fortress is complete, they fill it with dolls, stuffed animals, and games – the essentials of a well-rounded kingdom. Be careful, still, I warn. Even blanket forts are fragile and susceptible to attacks. I glance at their mother.
By noon the girls lose all interest in the fort and their rowdiness level rises again. They jump around, talk loudly, run back and forth from their mother’s side. They shoot down my suggestions to draw pictures or put together a puzzle. So I go into the kitchen to make their lunch – ham and cheese sandwiches, cucumber slices, grapes and Capri Sun. I cut the sandwiches in fours, set the table with forks, knives and napkins.
When they sit, Roos immediately protests. I don’t like cheese! She announces.
Yes you do.
Noooo I don’t!
I know you like cheese. (I know she likes cheese). They nibble at the sandwiches and pop the grapes into their mouths. Roos pulls a coloring book to her side. Roos, color after you eat. She pretends I haven’t spoken. Tess tosses her feet onto the table. Tess, please take your feet off the table. Roos says she’s going to the bathroom, but really she’s gone to sit by her mother.
I walk into the living room and ask Roos to come back to the table.
Sorry, her mom says. It’s always hardest to baby sit when the mother’s around. I really should have gone to the office (No shit). The girls will spend the next hours trying to get me let them have snacks and candy.
We need to get out of this house, so we hop a bus downtown.
The pirate ship, docked conveniently in a sandy oasis in a park is a child-manned wonder-boat of slides, nets and bridges, surrounded by springy dolphins, giant turtles and crocodiles. And is has recently been commandeered hundreds of munchkin pirates. I tell my munchkins to go and get fair share of the loot and find a place on a bench to read. They don’t seem to be having it though. Roos is content to sit on a crocodile slide. Tess won’t explore without her. They come back to me. I know why they aren’t playing. They have ice cream on their minds.
By 7:30, there mother comes through the door. This is my cue I’m off work. I’m free, free, free. But what does that really mean for me?
Tonight’s goal is to make one friend. One single friend. I’ll take anyone.
I walk through the lively city. Crowds of people hang around the doors of clubs and bars smoking, laughing having a generally good time. It feels good just being around them. I walk through the cobblestone streets alone, just observing – not afraid to stare. There’s a brass band playing in the center of it all under an oversized pavilion. I listen for a bit while reading M’s poetry. It’s so good. It’s everything I want to say already said.
I take the long elevator to the Grund. Once the shadiest part of town, full of drunks, druggies, thieves and whores, it’s now the most expensive and upscale hangout. I go to a familiar bar, order a drink and sit alone on a patio seat.
My only acquaintances are six-year-olds and a middle aged workaholic.
It’s hard making friends. The only other person sitting alone is working diligently at his lap top – no desire for company. I head inside and take a seat at the bar. It seems everybody is eyeing everybody else in this whole damn city.
Alone at a table by the window, a bearded old man with a guitar sits. He’s happily sipping a beer and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
Best of all, he’s smiling. He’s happy.
He’s the one. He’s going to be my friend. I want him to be my friend.
I choke. I just can’t bring myself to approach him, or anyone. Why won’t anyone come to me? I promise I’ll be interesting. I promise I’ll be fun! I wish people could tell that automatically.
Luxembourg’s gone dark. I leave the bar, not unhappy. Just being surrounded by people is still a spirit-lifter. I’m OK. On the way home I pull out a cigarette and stop to find my lighter. As I ruffle around in my bag for a minute, a thin townie-looking man approaches, extending a light.
I can’t pass by a person who’s searching for fire, he says.
I thank him.
Are you going to the show? He asks, pointing to an outdoor concert venue. I expect to see you there.
I don’t think so, I say.
Tonight it’s supposed to be good. But tomorrow’s will be even better.
I thank him again and am on my way back home.
That man could see my fire was missing. I’m beginning to feel like my fire’s here is burning dim too.
The pirate ship, docked conveniently in a sandy oasis in a park is a child-manned wonder-boat of slides, nets and bridges, surrounded by springy dolphins, giant turtles and crocodiles. And is has recently been commandeered hundreds of munchkin pirates. I tell my munchkins to go and get fair share of the loot and find a place on a bench to read. They don’t seem to be having it though. Roos is content to sit on a crocodile slide. Tess won’t explore without her. They come back to me. I know why they aren’t playing. They have ice cream on their minds.
By 7:30, there mother comes through the door. This is my cue I’m off work. I’m free, free, free. But what does that really mean for me?
Tonight’s goal is to make one friend. One single friend. I’ll take anyone.
I walk through the lively city. Crowds of people hang around the doors of clubs and bars smoking, laughing having a generally good time. It feels good just being around them. I walk through the cobblestone streets alone, just observing – not afraid to stare. There’s a brass band playing in the center of it all under an oversized pavilion. I listen for a bit while reading M’s poetry. It’s so good. It’s everything I want to say already said.
I take the long elevator to the Grund. Once the shadiest part of town, full of drunks, druggies, thieves and whores, it’s now the most expensive and upscale hangout. I go to a familiar bar, order a drink and sit alone on a patio seat.
My only acquaintances are six-year-olds and a middle aged workaholic.
It’s hard making friends. The only other person sitting alone is working diligently at his lap top – no desire for company. I head inside and take a seat at the bar. It seems everybody is eyeing everybody else in this whole damn city.
Alone at a table by the window, a bearded old man with a guitar sits. He’s happily sipping a beer and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
Best of all, he’s smiling. He’s happy.
He’s the one. He’s going to be my friend. I want him to be my friend.
I choke. I just can’t bring myself to approach him, or anyone. Why won’t anyone come to me? I promise I’ll be interesting. I promise I’ll be fun! I wish people could tell that automatically.
Luxembourg’s gone dark. I leave the bar, not unhappy. Just being surrounded by people is still a spirit-lifter. I’m OK. On the way home I pull out a cigarette and stop to find my lighter. As I ruffle around in my bag for a minute, a thin townie-looking man approaches, extending a light.
I can’t pass by a person who’s searching for fire, he says.
I thank him.
Are you going to the show? He asks, pointing to an outdoor concert venue. I expect to see you there.
I don’t think so, I say.
Tonight it’s supposed to be good. But tomorrow’s will be even better.
I thank him again and am on my way back home.
That man could see my fire was missing. I’m beginning to feel like my fire’s here is burning dim too.
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