At my great Aunts wake my uncle Andy and aunt Elsa asked me to baby sit their three youngest children, my cousins Christopher, Brandon and Kyle. They were going to Detroit for the funeral services of my distant aunt Rita who had passed 3 days prior. The majority of my family was making the trek to Michigan, but I was given the option of staying home by my father so naturally I opp ted out of the 4 hour car ride there and 3 hour car ride back. The members of my family who were staying behind were all busy or notoriously irresponsible where as my responsibilities were masked and hidden from the family by my father. My dad acted like he was my agent or attorney or some other professional con who was paid to make me and my pseudo accomplishments look like a sterling silver dinette set when in reality I was a K-mart brand spork.
In light of my public image I was the number two choice to baby sit the children, the number one pick was my Great Aunt Helen who was deceased. I won by default. Although I suppose “won” is the wrong adjective because being assigned to babysit Chris, Brandon and Kyle was no victory. They are terrorist. Tiny mutant terrorist with no regard or fear. If there was baby jail, these three would be baby felons and would be in baby San-quieten where they would wait years while a arduous trial raged on to determine if they were to be put to death by the baby gallows. Or electric chair, of course they'd need booster seats.
Before long news of me babysitting the children was spreading to all those in attendance at the wake. Apparently my dad had volunteered me to watch that boys for the weekend at he and my mother's house. My father had played Judas and sold me to the Romans. As I drifted from room to room of my Aunt Helen home people would nudge and tap me telling me how nice or dumb I was for taking own such a task. The warnings were said jokingly but had a tinge of seriousness that was both urgent and cryptic. I found my way to the deck where my cousin Gordon and Alexander were. These two were the older siblings of the three I was tasked to watch. Gordon was 17 and Alexander 16 and I had spent ample time with both of them in our younger years but the chemicals and melodrama of adolescence had removed us from such close company. But our family crest and blood gave us a hereditary reverence and understanding of one another.
We talked of the family, the “adults”, then we talked about Detroit and Aunt Rita's death and then about Aunt Helen and the house. This house meant more to all of us then our slack faces and general apathy led the elders to believe. The soggy yellow wood of the deck creeked as it had always. Under the deck was old bikes and century old cob webs, it smelled of rain drenched paper. Aunt Helen's house hosted countless family gatherings for around a century. These walls held up the ceiling in the Lawson name for years but we cared little about generations past. Gordon stared at the huge tree in the yard that casts a shadow over the shed. He had climbed and fallen from that oak once. The impact of the fall knocked him unconscious and me and Alexander dragged his body down the street to avoid a scolding. I held him by the arm and Alex had him by the legs, half way down the block an old woman watering her grass saw us and shrieked at the trail of small blood droplets behind us. He isn't dead I exclaimed she replied with a half nervous “I didn't ask.” and retreated calmly but quickly back in her house. Alexander had lived at aunt Helen's for the past few months to escape his family. He was now a star football player at his high school and was arrogant. Aunt Helen's death forced him to move back to his parents and brothers home. The furniture in the home was wrapped in plastic and had been for as long as I could remember. I thought about two small dogs that I could not place names nor remember relevancy of. The three of us shared a laugh about the old blue haired woman people called Aunt Franky, who had passed at least a decade ago. Aunt Helen's house smelled stale but safe. The refrigerator was always full and to this day my Aunt Helen's house is the only home I know with a pantry. Joint Juice plus, a formula developed to strengthen tendons and energize the drinker, was always in stock. But flexible joints are no competition to time and a willingness to let it take you. Aunt Helen's home was in a nice, hilly, green suburb. I remember hearing talk of selling the house. Meaning my services would be needed to help move dusty, heavy and ancient pieces of furniture out of the house. The basement was head quarters to huge spiders and probably rodents. Over the next few months the adults would need my help cleaning the place thus my next few memories of the home wouldn't be so fond.
The next day at around 11 a.m My Uncle Andy dropped the kids off, he gave me a few instructions and 50 dollars for food and pocket money. My parents had left earlier that morning. The kids came with two duffel bags one filled with clothes and the other with complicated age inappropriate toys. I was in the kitchen making ravioli when they all came in. Christopher was the oldest at 10, he was chubby and had a peanut shaped head, he wore taped glasses and shrunken stained shirt. Brandon was the second oldest, he was around 6 I think. People said he looked and acted just like my father did when he was a child which I found neither humorous nor promising. Kyle was the youngest and worst. In his 5 years of living he had deliberately wronged me more than any one else I had ever met. He spat in my food, thrown toy trucks at my head and crouch called me every foul name in the book and grinned at me during all of it. I'd made a plan, since he was too small to exact physical revenge on now, I'd wait until he was about 17 and I'd sleep with his girlfriend or give him a black eye before prom.
“We're hungry.” Christopher said in a shaky cartoon-eque voice.
“Yeah, and thirsty.” The raspy voiced Brandon said. Kyle just grinned, the little prick.
“I ordered pizza, it should be here soon.” I lied. The only call I had made all morning was to my friend Mike who I hadn't seen in months. He lived a few blocks away from my parents house and since I was spending the weekend here I thought this a good opportunity to catch. He'd be here within the hour.
“What kind of pizza?” Christopher asked squinting through his glasses he looked like a midget librarian.
“What kind do you want?”
“Peperoni.”
“That's the kind I ordered then.” I said turning off the stove as my ravioli finished.
“Did you get bacon on it too?” Christopher asked.
“What the fuck? No kid your age should even know bacon on pizza is possible.”
“I love bacon on pizza.” Christopher said smiling awkwardly.
“And ham.” Kyle yelled. I saw obesity in these children s future,not like it was hard in America to be fat anyway. While other countries live of 7 cents a day, we stuff our pizza crusts with cheeses and sauces, which if I'm not mistaken, is essentially pizza stuffed pizza.There is no Food Network in Ethiopia.
“No bacon, no ham, just pepperoni. Thats all the swine you rejects need.”
“Man.” Christopher said sounded utterly heartbroken. He ran off with Brandon and Kyle strutted past me to the basement. Either to play with my dog or to raid the storage room for my old toys. At my fathers behest, I hid everything that was valuable or easily breakable in a box in my room. These three had at least broken 15 hundred dollars worth of property collectively and I'd be damned if my collectors edition War Planets figurines were....
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