Back around April, I sat in the garage perplexed by my neighbors across the street. I watched a husband and wife struggle to load an old-fashioned diving suit into their minivan. Out of curiosity I got in my car and followed them when they drove off. Part of me not surprised when we arrived at the grocery store.
In the parking lot, the Husband got into the suit, while his Wife assisted, helping him attach a bulky four window, 12-bolt helmet. She hooked up a breathing hose that ran to the trunk of their minivan. Therein lay a pump she operated, supplying her husband with air. Waving goodbye, he lumbered into the store. Almost an hour later he returned with a roll of toilet paper, a sack of rice, and a can of peas covered in blood.
That night I sat on the roof of my home smoking a cigarette and drinking whiskey. A few houses over tiki torches lit a gathering of neighbors. Middle-aged people in cultish red bandanas performing a hybridized suburban Santería derived from inaccurate internet articles. They poured a can of hot chicken soup onto makeshift statues of Jesus and Donald Trump then used the can lid to cut their hands, bleed on the figures, and pray to the Four Holy Marshals, begging them for safety in this time of plague.
I thought about getting my BB gun for a little sniper action but decided not to stir the pot. This insanity hinted of a deeper madness on the horizon. Best not to get on anyone’s radar, or else, when the frightened hordes make Hell on Earth they might come knocking. Scores to settle and such. Instead, I went downstairs, turned on the television, and blinked away the weeks.
Ocular gluttony absorbing every distraction available on screen. Stale junk food reruns consumed voraciously between the binging of any fresh spicy entrées. Gorging on the inane until the city of Minneapolis burned across every evening news.
Looking away seemed like willfully ignoring the sounds of abuse through thin walls. Blue boys battering peaceful protesters in real time, while pundits and police officials insist there’s no such thing as police brutality. That it’s a citizen’s duty to take a punch with a smile; the real crime any slanderous accusation that a cop committed murder just because he choked an unconscious person to death.
At one point, I called a friend who lived in Minneapolis. His grim accounts of pickups covered in Confederate bumper stickers, drivers cruising for trouble, and police giddily cracking skulls fueled a deeper dive into depression. I sent a little cash to organizations trying to bail folks out but felt like someone spitting on an inferno. Eventually, I put a bottle of whiskey through the screen then sank down into the basement.
Weeks later, coming up for air, I found bills clogging my mailbox. The world may seem like it’s ending, but the great capitalist machine will carry on to the last tick. Then charge an access fee for oblivion.
Reluctantly I examined the bills. That led to a grim appraisal of my bank account. Enough money to stave off consequences for a little while. However, out in the open ocean, treading water is simply putting off the inevitable. If nothing else, I needed a job to shift gears. Something else to occupy my mind.
Going door to door selling homemade hand sanitizer produced little profit. Though I have the feeling if I’d foregone the plague doctor outfit, sales might’ve been better. In any event, I sent out feelers. By the end of the day I got a call.
Some desperate individual—friend of a friend of a friend infinitum—needed counselors for a local day camp.
“Hey, man, you’re not my first choice for this type of job.”
“Understood,” I said.
“Normally, I wouldn’t offer you this, but no one else wants the assignment.”
“Story of my life,” I said. “Where do I have to be?”
I received the address. A clubroom out in a nearby park district. I spent the rest of the night refreshing my social skills. The table lamp agreed I needed to.
“It’s been a while since you talked to proper people,” it said. “You need the practice.”
“Right-o,” I replied. “Especially since I’m working with children. Certain things could slip out. Things they don’t need to hear. Like how we’re all doomed.”
“Doomed!” sang the furniture, and we merrily danced the night away.
The next morning, I showered for the first time in days. Possibly a week. It’s hard to tell the passage of time anymore. After getting dressed, I headed outside.
Across the street I saw my neighbors tending to their lawn. Husband mowed the lawn with a scuba tank on his back, while the Wife weeded in a hazmat suit. They waved to me warmly, and I waved back. No sense being unfriendly. After all, part of Phase IV seems to be reconnecting, albeit cautiously.
Getting in my car, I drove to the camp. Donning a black washable facemask, I got out of the car. Though I’ve never been much of a park person, it felt great being outdoors. Although, seeing large groups out and about still felt odd.
Children in plastic bubbles tumbled down slides. Parents in homemade PPE caught them then rolled their kids to the next bit of equipment. Signs of yellow tape still showed. Canary feathers hinting of the early quarantine crackdowns restricting access to playground equipment. However, I couldn’t say if officials removed the tape, or parents merely tore it down.
Finding the clubroom, I went inside. A young lady walked along a table arranging supplies for arts and crafts projects. She wore a lavender face mask, khaki capri pants and a pastel polo shirt. Lemon yellow letters designed to look like sloppy paint adorned her shirt proclaiming, “Chi-travelers Day Camp.”
I introduced myself. Like an accordion, she breathed a sigh of relief with her whole body. I Whether this amounted to melodramatics or she actually felt that deeply relieved I couldn’t say.
“Happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m Cindy.”
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
“Kill me,” she laughed. “This day is a nightmare, and it hasn’t even begun. I’m just kidding. We’re going to have fun!”
She chuckled. Her mask hid half of her facial expression. However, her clear eyes glowed, lit, I assumed, by some optimistic flame. At the very least, I have yet to meet a perky pessimist who isn’t on drugs, and nothing about Cindy struck me as chemically induced. She carried herself with the bubbly joy of someone genuinely in love with life.
Normally, I instinctually hate such people. Perhaps envy fuels that dislike, but they always seem like someone who, tied to an anchor, smiles all the way to the ocean floor. If asked, they might merrily say, “I’ve never been to the bottom of the sea.” However, Cindy came across as refreshing. A ray of sunshine in a dark age. It made me want to make sure no burden arrived that might imperil her sunny demeanor.
So, when she gave orders I sprang into action. Her first assignment: changing my shirt. She handed me a pastel polo to match hers. I promptly stripped off my black heavy metal tee.
“Give me your shirt,” she said. “I’m just going to put it aside in this box for now. This is spare clothes for kids in case accidents happen, but you’re bigger than the kids, so I doubt it’ll get lost.”
“What kind of accidents?” I asked.
“Oh, you never know, but clothes get ruined. That’s why we have spares.”
Cindy then took me around the room explaining the day. It sounded simple enough. The general concept involved herding the children from one activity to the next, assisting them when necessary, and handing them back to their parents in a few hours. I’ve worked as a bouncer, so babysitting a horde of kids sounded simple.
A few other folks eventually joined us. Mainly teenagers who reminded me of those kids voted most likely to succeed. Introductory conversations ensued as we all broke into groups. I got my own platoon of teens to whom I planned on delegating most of my responsibilities. Cindy took command of the rest.
“Hey, uh, sir?” one said to me. “Is this punch ready?”
I walked over to a five-gallon drum. Spooning out a small cup I took a sip. Nodding in approval I headed outside. There I pulled out a mini bottle of vodka. Pouring it in I heard a squeal of tires.
Up the street an SUV came screaming around the corner. Flying at top speed it raced along the edge of the park. The driver hit the brakes hard causing the tires to smoke and lay down a stretch of rubber. The car slowed but never stopped. As it skidded by the doors flew open, out shot a pair of small kids, who tumbled along the park’s green grass. Then the SUV sped off blasting Clean Bandit’s Solo.
The kids dusted themselves off.
“Bye Mom!” they shouted as the SUV drifted around a corner.
Soon a steady of stream of vehicles darted down the street. Some came to a proper stop. Most didn’t. Harried parents glimpsed briefly through passenger windows shooed there kids out of cars.
“We love you! Get out.”
I don’t think hostages race for freedom as quick those parents fleeing their own children. The kids, however, came at varying paces. Some rushed. Many trudged along as if marching to the guillotine. Others walked nervously unsure of approaching the clubhouse area. Because of their facemasks, they all reminded me of kids on their way to the first day of ninja school.
In the latter category, I spotted a tiny nervous boy with a backpack. Instead of going towards the obvious door he walked up to me.
“Hi,” the boy said.
“Fun’s in there, little man,” I said, jutting a thumb towards the door.
“There’re lots of people in there.”
“Yep.”
“I don’t like big crowds,” he said giving me the sad puppy eyes.
“Me neither, but I’m not falling for this trope,” I muttered. “Get inside or wander off, but you be back by four, understood?”
He nodded vigorously then ran off. As he scurried away the boy pulled a small hammer out of his backpack. He disappeared behind a bush. Out of sight, not my problem, I went inside.
Cindy waved to me. I echoed her energy as she introduced me to the kids.
“If any of you need help,” Cindy said. “He’s one of our adults. We’re here to help you have a fun, safe time.”
“Oh yeah,” I said finishing my drink. “We’re gonna do all the whacky shit.”
“What’s that?” Cindy said.
“Whacky stuff!” I said.
A couple kids cheered. That stirred an odd sensation. Almost a pleasant feeling. Shaking it off, I gathered my platoon of teens. I told them to collect the kids under our watch. Soon, ten babbling children encircled me. None older than eleven. Except for one or two adorable butterballs, they all looked small enough for me to toss around if needs be. By which I mean, easily hurl out a window if the clubhouse suddenly burst into flames. The way lights occasionally flickered didn’t speak well of the wiring in this place.
“Okay,” Cindy said. “Our first project is going to be making personalized face masks.”
We then led the kids through the process of snipping t-shirts. All the while Cindy gave instructions.
“You wanna start by using your scissors to cut at the bottom,” she said. “Cut 8-inch tall bands. 7-inches in length and six in height from one side, leave about a quarter inch of fabric between the cut and the edge. Then snip those ends into strings, and the strings you get, tie behind your head. It’s real easy.”
“How do we that?” a kid asked me.
“Fuck if I know,” I said. “Look. I’ll go first, and if I screw it up just don’t do what I did.”
The children nodded. Fortunately, I didn’t screw up. At least not until we received fabric pens to decorate our personal facemasks. While the children gave themselves bunny mouths, cat whiskers, and other innocent bullshit, I painted a Joker smile on mine that would disturb the Dark Knight. One kid cried.
Normally, that would feel like an accomplishment. For some reason, it didn’t. Perhaps that had to do with Cindy rushing in. She warped across the room in the blink of an eye. Whispering comfort, she calmed the kid in two seconds. Then she sent them off with my teens to play Big Fat Pony outside.
She turned to me.
“Love the detail on that mask,” she said. “But…”
“It’s not for kids,” I nodded. “Sorry, not used to the little ones. I’ll make something friendlier, while they’re outside.”
Cindy gave me a thumbs up. The air around her rippled, and she vanished, popping up on the other side of the room to explain why the markers aren’t to be sucked dry. I conjured a quick bunny mask then went outside.
#
I’ve seen a lot of madness in my time, but nothing compared to the controlled chaos Cindy orchestrated. She conducted the whole day like water chasing zero gravity fire. Cutting it off just as the inferno felt safe to spread then urging it gently yet forcefully to some other location. Several times I felt tempted to kick a kid in the face, she arrived with a quiet word that shifted the whole situation into something positive.
That isn’t to say she put out every fire. One person can only do so much. Though I didn’t handle things with her grace, I do believe I remedied certain situations thoroughly.
Like when I found a little boy sniffling in a corner.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said.
Knowing that’s not a good start, I asked what he meant. He informed me he couldn’t get his belt off and as a consequence, peed his pants. I examined the belt, a BDU number his weekend warrior dad got him, but never properly explained to his little survivalist in training. That’s when a group of older boys sauntered over.
Tears in the kiddie kingdom are blood in the water.
“Why ya cryin’ Ryan?” the biggest boy said.
The name rhyme made the whole situation seem fated. As such, I could already picture the dark road ahead. An ethereal P forever stamped on Ryan’s forehead. Before anyone saw anything incriminating, I hoisted Ryan onto my shoulder. Doing my best not to notice the cold dampness spreading on my shoulder, I carried him across the room.
“This man is injured,” I shouted. “We need to get him to safety before the cartel returns. El Sepulturero wants blood. You boys.” – I pointed to the potential bullies – “Make sure it’s safe outside. Guns blazing and such gibberish.”
The boys ran off screaming. A little girl nearby looked up at me.
“What about me?” she asked.
“Nobody said you can’t kick some ass,” I said. “Get the fuck out there. Wait! Take this.”
I tossed her an apple, informing her it was a hand grenade. She ran outside and several other children followed. Enough that the room sufficiently cleared allowing me to discretely get a pair of pants from the box of emergency clothes. About to escort the young fellow into the boy’s bathroom, Cindy popped over.
“Don’t use any of the facilities in there,” she said. “The pipes are busted. Last week, they blew a kid out of the bathroom.”
“Right-o,” I said saluting. “Just giving this little guy some privacy.”
Not five minutes later, in clean pants, he raced outside to join the other children. Laughing and playing, none the wiser, they ran around until Cindy sent teens to corral the kids for another planned activity. Meanwhile, I fixed myself a second vodka punch.
A little girl tugged on my pant leg. When I looked down, she held up an empty glass. I filled it then bent over to hand it to her. She sniffed the air. Her face scrunched in confusion.
“You smell like pee,” she said.
“Life is like that sometimes,” I said.
She headed away, trying to drink at the same time. Most of her beverage spilled onto her shirt. Shaking my head, I checked my pockets. Two mini bottles left. I’d need to ration things.
Around lunch time we wrangled the kids into a single file column. Two at a time they went into the only functioning bathroom, the one labeled WOMEN, to wash their hands. Two sinks, two kids, the only working bathroom—simple math.
The main problem, at first, appeared to be that young children are meat machines capable of perpetual energy. The more they do the more active they become. Unlike old Olympic drinkers, children don’t turn into immobile sludge over the course of a day. They actually transmute into gas molecules which bounce around a room. Any attempt to herd them is then hampered by the fact it’s illegal to use a cattle prod. Yet, we did the best we could. That is until a new fresh hell reared its ugly face.
The clubroom belonged to a common area in the park. Throughout the morning people strolled through or popped in to grab things like basketballs. The general public allowed access to the bathrooms, drinking fountains, so on and so forth. At one point, someone came in coughing. Everyone went silent, even the kids, eyes fixed on the possible plague carrier until they left, and we could all pretend there was no reason to worry.
I felt the air change before I saw the monster. Even now to describe the thing almost seems to risk summoning it. Names have power. I feel safe to say that a horde of jellyfish which swam through bronzer, assembled into a humanoid semblance by stuffing itself into ill-fitting yoga clothes then unknowingly caught sun bleached seaweed atop its head in an asymmetrical swoop came galumphing into the clubroom. Ignoring the loose line of children, this entity power walked straight into the bathroom. A moment later it burst out bellowing.
“Who is in charge?” the thing clamored.
Taking a deep breath, Cindy moved in.
“How can I help you?” Cindy asked.
“There are boys in the women’s room!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cindy said. “They’re just washing their hands.”
“But it’s the women’s room,” she shouted. “The boys can’t be in there.”
“The boy’s room is broken,” Cindy explained. “The only other bathrooms are on the other side of the park. This is easier.”
“This is a public bathroom. Boys can’t be in there!”
I grew out of white knight syndrome a long time ago. As such, I feel no need to rush to a woman’s rescue, especially when it’s obvious she’s not a damsel in distress. Sure, the jellyfish demon with Peking duck skin howled monstrously, but Cindy stood unflinching. She moved only to block the spray of green spittle flying from the angry creature’s unmasked mouth as it ranted. Several times one could easily see droplets splashing on Cindy’s clothes as she moved to prevent the spritz from showering children.
“Hey mister,” a kid asked. “What’s for lunch?”
“A big scoop of shut the fuck up,” I said. “I’m trying to watch this.”
The jabbering jellyfish homunculus stuck to one point. That boys do not belong in the women’s bathroom. This, it believed, constituted a universal truth which needed no other elaboration than its tautological explanation.
“Boys can’t be in the women’s room. Men are not allowed in the girl’s room.”
For her own part, Cindy tried several different logical avenues. When the opening course through the busted bathroom proved ineffective, she deftly switched tactics. However, each rational route ran into an obstinate brick wall. The impasse inherent in arguing with stupid people who think they’re in the right. Facts, reason, and logic become as useful as a glass axe chopping down a tree. Running out of options, Cindy risked a less direct more abstract approach.
“It’s not really that big a deal is it?” she asked. “I mean, what’re you afraid of? Some kids might discover everyone uses a toilet?”
“Boys. Go. In. The. Boy’s room.”
“To do the same thing girls do,” Cindy replied. “You’re making their gender sound like something real, or absolute. It doesn’t really matter.”
“How can you say something so stupid?” the jellyfish wailed. “I don’t know what diseased notions you’re exposing these children too, but I will not let it continue. Someone has to protect the children. I am going to get you fired. You’re what’s wrong with the world.”
As it spoke, the jellyfish lumbered around the room. The whole incident began to feel like a display. Something akin to a wrestler working the mic. Oh, let me tell you something brother, you better watch your ass because tonight Kare-Bear the Rat-licker is coming to see the manager. It’s been five whole minutes since she flexed; crushed someone for an honest easily reparable mistake, and she is gonna run wild over any opposition.
She even pulled out a phone insisting she intended to phone the police. As someone who’s seen disinterested cops reluctantly cross the street to stop a man from beating a woman, I wondered how much they’d care. Yet, her righteous crusade demanded a dramatic end to the perversion of these children. The innocents indoctrinated by washing their hands in the wrong bathroom.
“And the police aren’t messy around anymore,” the jellyfish said. “They aren’t afraid to put people like you in your place.”
She started dialing. Cindy seemed about to speak then said nothing. Her head suddenly turned down, eyes on the floor. That felt like a cue. Cracking my knuckles, I took a step forward ready to tag in until Cindy got her strength back. However, I then noticed that without her constant attention, chaos steadily filled the room.
Kids drifted from the line. Teenagers focused on their phones. The gas molecules flew about the room like lightspeed pinballs. So, I set about wrangling kiddies, rousing the teens back to work, though all while keeping an eye on Cindy.
The jellyfish oni oozed over to leer above Cindy. She poised a finger over the call button on her phone.
“I’m about end your whole world,” the jellyfish smiled.
Cindy looked up, and the demon flinched.
“Look here lady,” Cindy said. “A couple kids washing their motherfucking hands isn’t the root of all evil. Unlike your banshee rat-licker mouth spitting all kinds of plague you disgusting dimwitted dumpster fire. Call the police. Call them. Then when they get here, I’ll explain how you died.”
“I…”
“Will kill you.”
“Have never…”
“Seen death,” Cindy said. “And I am She.”
The jellyfish hesitated. Cindy took a lunging step. The jellyfish hurried for the exit.
Instructing the teens to start handing out lunches—prepackaged meals—I sidled over to Cindy. She stood glaring at the empty air.
“That was awesome,” I said.
She turned towards me. Though I couldn’t see a smile, I suspected one spread. Yet, the look in her eyes implied madness in any grin. Cindy’s eyes started to shatter red. She shut her gazers and when they opened, the crimson cracks were gone, the glossy white returned. She shivered like someone swallowing a harsh shot of alcohol.
“Sorry about that,” she said.
“No worries,” I said.
Nodding, she moved away. After making sure the kids got fed, she slipped outside. Leaving teens in charge, I went after her with two cups of punch.
I found her behind a tree smoking a cigarette. At first, she tried to hide the smoke until she saw who it was.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re not setting any bad examples for me.”
I handed her a cup. She thanked me with a whisper. I pulled out a mini bottle. Reluctantly, she accepted. I offered both, but she only took one.
“To the world we live in,” I raised my cup. “It can’t last forever.”
Cindy clinked my cup. We stood six feet apart in order to safely take our masks off and drink. Between sips, I shared some of my own encounters with similar suburban fauna, Karenabitchosaurus Rex. Joking about such incidents carried us through the rest of the day.
“Could you help that girl with her glue?” Cindy asked.
“That depends,” I said. “Is there a certain way she should do it? I don’t want to turn her into a glue pervert.”
The next day I arrived looking forward to work. That is until I saw an old balding man in the clubroom. He introduced himself as Lionel, founder of the Chi-Travelers Camp. He said he would be leading the day camp since a torrent of phone calls and email complaints forced him to fire Cindy.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” I said.
“We work with kids,” Lionel shrugged. “I can’t take chances on any negative perceptions. Anyway, the bus will be here at eleven to take us on our first travel trip. We’re visiting a spot in the city—hey, where’re you going?”
“I quit.”
That night I sat on the roof of my home smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey. The tiki torch suburban mystics gathered to thank their elephant god for keeping them plague free one more day. Picking up the BB gun next to me I took aim.
Let trouble come. The wicked are already making Hell on Earth. No sense in allowing them to enjoy it.
In the parking lot, the Husband got into the suit, while his Wife assisted, helping him attach a bulky four window, 12-bolt helmet. She hooked up a breathing hose that ran to the trunk of their minivan. Therein lay a pump she operated, supplying her husband with air. Waving goodbye, he lumbered into the store. Almost an hour later he returned with a roll of toilet paper, a sack of rice, and a can of peas covered in blood.
That night I sat on the roof of my home smoking a cigarette and drinking whiskey. A few houses over tiki torches lit a gathering of neighbors. Middle-aged people in cultish red bandanas performing a hybridized suburban Santería derived from inaccurate internet articles. They poured a can of hot chicken soup onto makeshift statues of Jesus and Donald Trump then used the can lid to cut their hands, bleed on the figures, and pray to the Four Holy Marshals, begging them for safety in this time of plague.
I thought about getting my BB gun for a little sniper action but decided not to stir the pot. This insanity hinted of a deeper madness on the horizon. Best not to get on anyone’s radar, or else, when the frightened hordes make Hell on Earth they might come knocking. Scores to settle and such. Instead, I went downstairs, turned on the television, and blinked away the weeks.
Ocular gluttony absorbing every distraction available on screen. Stale junk food reruns consumed voraciously between the binging of any fresh spicy entrées. Gorging on the inane until the city of Minneapolis burned across every evening news.
Looking away seemed like willfully ignoring the sounds of abuse through thin walls. Blue boys battering peaceful protesters in real time, while pundits and police officials insist there’s no such thing as police brutality. That it’s a citizen’s duty to take a punch with a smile; the real crime any slanderous accusation that a cop committed murder just because he choked an unconscious person to death.
At one point, I called a friend who lived in Minneapolis. His grim accounts of pickups covered in Confederate bumper stickers, drivers cruising for trouble, and police giddily cracking skulls fueled a deeper dive into depression. I sent a little cash to organizations trying to bail folks out but felt like someone spitting on an inferno. Eventually, I put a bottle of whiskey through the screen then sank down into the basement.
Weeks later, coming up for air, I found bills clogging my mailbox. The world may seem like it’s ending, but the great capitalist machine will carry on to the last tick. Then charge an access fee for oblivion.
Reluctantly I examined the bills. That led to a grim appraisal of my bank account. Enough money to stave off consequences for a little while. However, out in the open ocean, treading water is simply putting off the inevitable. If nothing else, I needed a job to shift gears. Something else to occupy my mind.
Going door to door selling homemade hand sanitizer produced little profit. Though I have the feeling if I’d foregone the plague doctor outfit, sales might’ve been better. In any event, I sent out feelers. By the end of the day I got a call.
Some desperate individual—friend of a friend of a friend infinitum—needed counselors for a local day camp.
“Hey, man, you’re not my first choice for this type of job.”
“Understood,” I said.
“Normally, I wouldn’t offer you this, but no one else wants the assignment.”
“Story of my life,” I said. “Where do I have to be?”
I received the address. A clubroom out in a nearby park district. I spent the rest of the night refreshing my social skills. The table lamp agreed I needed to.
“It’s been a while since you talked to proper people,” it said. “You need the practice.”
“Right-o,” I replied. “Especially since I’m working with children. Certain things could slip out. Things they don’t need to hear. Like how we’re all doomed.”
“Doomed!” sang the furniture, and we merrily danced the night away.
The next morning, I showered for the first time in days. Possibly a week. It’s hard to tell the passage of time anymore. After getting dressed, I headed outside.
Across the street I saw my neighbors tending to their lawn. Husband mowed the lawn with a scuba tank on his back, while the Wife weeded in a hazmat suit. They waved to me warmly, and I waved back. No sense being unfriendly. After all, part of Phase IV seems to be reconnecting, albeit cautiously.
Getting in my car, I drove to the camp. Donning a black washable facemask, I got out of the car. Though I’ve never been much of a park person, it felt great being outdoors. Although, seeing large groups out and about still felt odd.
Children in plastic bubbles tumbled down slides. Parents in homemade PPE caught them then rolled their kids to the next bit of equipment. Signs of yellow tape still showed. Canary feathers hinting of the early quarantine crackdowns restricting access to playground equipment. However, I couldn’t say if officials removed the tape, or parents merely tore it down.
Finding the clubroom, I went inside. A young lady walked along a table arranging supplies for arts and crafts projects. She wore a lavender face mask, khaki capri pants and a pastel polo shirt. Lemon yellow letters designed to look like sloppy paint adorned her shirt proclaiming, “Chi-travelers Day Camp.”
I introduced myself. Like an accordion, she breathed a sigh of relief with her whole body. I Whether this amounted to melodramatics or she actually felt that deeply relieved I couldn’t say.
“Happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m Cindy.”
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
“Kill me,” she laughed. “This day is a nightmare, and it hasn’t even begun. I’m just kidding. We’re going to have fun!”
She chuckled. Her mask hid half of her facial expression. However, her clear eyes glowed, lit, I assumed, by some optimistic flame. At the very least, I have yet to meet a perky pessimist who isn’t on drugs, and nothing about Cindy struck me as chemically induced. She carried herself with the bubbly joy of someone genuinely in love with life.
Normally, I instinctually hate such people. Perhaps envy fuels that dislike, but they always seem like someone who, tied to an anchor, smiles all the way to the ocean floor. If asked, they might merrily say, “I’ve never been to the bottom of the sea.” However, Cindy came across as refreshing. A ray of sunshine in a dark age. It made me want to make sure no burden arrived that might imperil her sunny demeanor.
So, when she gave orders I sprang into action. Her first assignment: changing my shirt. She handed me a pastel polo to match hers. I promptly stripped off my black heavy metal tee.
“Give me your shirt,” she said. “I’m just going to put it aside in this box for now. This is spare clothes for kids in case accidents happen, but you’re bigger than the kids, so I doubt it’ll get lost.”
“What kind of accidents?” I asked.
“Oh, you never know, but clothes get ruined. That’s why we have spares.”
Cindy then took me around the room explaining the day. It sounded simple enough. The general concept involved herding the children from one activity to the next, assisting them when necessary, and handing them back to their parents in a few hours. I’ve worked as a bouncer, so babysitting a horde of kids sounded simple.
A few other folks eventually joined us. Mainly teenagers who reminded me of those kids voted most likely to succeed. Introductory conversations ensued as we all broke into groups. I got my own platoon of teens to whom I planned on delegating most of my responsibilities. Cindy took command of the rest.
“Hey, uh, sir?” one said to me. “Is this punch ready?”
I walked over to a five-gallon drum. Spooning out a small cup I took a sip. Nodding in approval I headed outside. There I pulled out a mini bottle of vodka. Pouring it in I heard a squeal of tires.
Up the street an SUV came screaming around the corner. Flying at top speed it raced along the edge of the park. The driver hit the brakes hard causing the tires to smoke and lay down a stretch of rubber. The car slowed but never stopped. As it skidded by the doors flew open, out shot a pair of small kids, who tumbled along the park’s green grass. Then the SUV sped off blasting Clean Bandit’s Solo.
The kids dusted themselves off.
“Bye Mom!” they shouted as the SUV drifted around a corner.
Soon a steady of stream of vehicles darted down the street. Some came to a proper stop. Most didn’t. Harried parents glimpsed briefly through passenger windows shooed there kids out of cars.
“We love you! Get out.”
I don’t think hostages race for freedom as quick those parents fleeing their own children. The kids, however, came at varying paces. Some rushed. Many trudged along as if marching to the guillotine. Others walked nervously unsure of approaching the clubhouse area. Because of their facemasks, they all reminded me of kids on their way to the first day of ninja school.
In the latter category, I spotted a tiny nervous boy with a backpack. Instead of going towards the obvious door he walked up to me.
“Hi,” the boy said.
“Fun’s in there, little man,” I said, jutting a thumb towards the door.
“There’re lots of people in there.”
“Yep.”
“I don’t like big crowds,” he said giving me the sad puppy eyes.
“Me neither, but I’m not falling for this trope,” I muttered. “Get inside or wander off, but you be back by four, understood?”
He nodded vigorously then ran off. As he scurried away the boy pulled a small hammer out of his backpack. He disappeared behind a bush. Out of sight, not my problem, I went inside.
Cindy waved to me. I echoed her energy as she introduced me to the kids.
“If any of you need help,” Cindy said. “He’s one of our adults. We’re here to help you have a fun, safe time.”
“Oh yeah,” I said finishing my drink. “We’re gonna do all the whacky shit.”
“What’s that?” Cindy said.
“Whacky stuff!” I said.
A couple kids cheered. That stirred an odd sensation. Almost a pleasant feeling. Shaking it off, I gathered my platoon of teens. I told them to collect the kids under our watch. Soon, ten babbling children encircled me. None older than eleven. Except for one or two adorable butterballs, they all looked small enough for me to toss around if needs be. By which I mean, easily hurl out a window if the clubhouse suddenly burst into flames. The way lights occasionally flickered didn’t speak well of the wiring in this place.
“Okay,” Cindy said. “Our first project is going to be making personalized face masks.”
We then led the kids through the process of snipping t-shirts. All the while Cindy gave instructions.
“You wanna start by using your scissors to cut at the bottom,” she said. “Cut 8-inch tall bands. 7-inches in length and six in height from one side, leave about a quarter inch of fabric between the cut and the edge. Then snip those ends into strings, and the strings you get, tie behind your head. It’s real easy.”
“How do we that?” a kid asked me.
“Fuck if I know,” I said. “Look. I’ll go first, and if I screw it up just don’t do what I did.”
The children nodded. Fortunately, I didn’t screw up. At least not until we received fabric pens to decorate our personal facemasks. While the children gave themselves bunny mouths, cat whiskers, and other innocent bullshit, I painted a Joker smile on mine that would disturb the Dark Knight. One kid cried.
Normally, that would feel like an accomplishment. For some reason, it didn’t. Perhaps that had to do with Cindy rushing in. She warped across the room in the blink of an eye. Whispering comfort, she calmed the kid in two seconds. Then she sent them off with my teens to play Big Fat Pony outside.
She turned to me.
“Love the detail on that mask,” she said. “But…”
“It’s not for kids,” I nodded. “Sorry, not used to the little ones. I’ll make something friendlier, while they’re outside.”
Cindy gave me a thumbs up. The air around her rippled, and she vanished, popping up on the other side of the room to explain why the markers aren’t to be sucked dry. I conjured a quick bunny mask then went outside.
#
I’ve seen a lot of madness in my time, but nothing compared to the controlled chaos Cindy orchestrated. She conducted the whole day like water chasing zero gravity fire. Cutting it off just as the inferno felt safe to spread then urging it gently yet forcefully to some other location. Several times I felt tempted to kick a kid in the face, she arrived with a quiet word that shifted the whole situation into something positive.
That isn’t to say she put out every fire. One person can only do so much. Though I didn’t handle things with her grace, I do believe I remedied certain situations thoroughly.
Like when I found a little boy sniffling in a corner.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said.
Knowing that’s not a good start, I asked what he meant. He informed me he couldn’t get his belt off and as a consequence, peed his pants. I examined the belt, a BDU number his weekend warrior dad got him, but never properly explained to his little survivalist in training. That’s when a group of older boys sauntered over.
Tears in the kiddie kingdom are blood in the water.
“Why ya cryin’ Ryan?” the biggest boy said.
The name rhyme made the whole situation seem fated. As such, I could already picture the dark road ahead. An ethereal P forever stamped on Ryan’s forehead. Before anyone saw anything incriminating, I hoisted Ryan onto my shoulder. Doing my best not to notice the cold dampness spreading on my shoulder, I carried him across the room.
“This man is injured,” I shouted. “We need to get him to safety before the cartel returns. El Sepulturero wants blood. You boys.” – I pointed to the potential bullies – “Make sure it’s safe outside. Guns blazing and such gibberish.”
The boys ran off screaming. A little girl nearby looked up at me.
“What about me?” she asked.
“Nobody said you can’t kick some ass,” I said. “Get the fuck out there. Wait! Take this.”
I tossed her an apple, informing her it was a hand grenade. She ran outside and several other children followed. Enough that the room sufficiently cleared allowing me to discretely get a pair of pants from the box of emergency clothes. About to escort the young fellow into the boy’s bathroom, Cindy popped over.
“Don’t use any of the facilities in there,” she said. “The pipes are busted. Last week, they blew a kid out of the bathroom.”
“Right-o,” I said saluting. “Just giving this little guy some privacy.”
Not five minutes later, in clean pants, he raced outside to join the other children. Laughing and playing, none the wiser, they ran around until Cindy sent teens to corral the kids for another planned activity. Meanwhile, I fixed myself a second vodka punch.
A little girl tugged on my pant leg. When I looked down, she held up an empty glass. I filled it then bent over to hand it to her. She sniffed the air. Her face scrunched in confusion.
“You smell like pee,” she said.
“Life is like that sometimes,” I said.
She headed away, trying to drink at the same time. Most of her beverage spilled onto her shirt. Shaking my head, I checked my pockets. Two mini bottles left. I’d need to ration things.
Around lunch time we wrangled the kids into a single file column. Two at a time they went into the only functioning bathroom, the one labeled WOMEN, to wash their hands. Two sinks, two kids, the only working bathroom—simple math.
The main problem, at first, appeared to be that young children are meat machines capable of perpetual energy. The more they do the more active they become. Unlike old Olympic drinkers, children don’t turn into immobile sludge over the course of a day. They actually transmute into gas molecules which bounce around a room. Any attempt to herd them is then hampered by the fact it’s illegal to use a cattle prod. Yet, we did the best we could. That is until a new fresh hell reared its ugly face.
The clubroom belonged to a common area in the park. Throughout the morning people strolled through or popped in to grab things like basketballs. The general public allowed access to the bathrooms, drinking fountains, so on and so forth. At one point, someone came in coughing. Everyone went silent, even the kids, eyes fixed on the possible plague carrier until they left, and we could all pretend there was no reason to worry.
I felt the air change before I saw the monster. Even now to describe the thing almost seems to risk summoning it. Names have power. I feel safe to say that a horde of jellyfish which swam through bronzer, assembled into a humanoid semblance by stuffing itself into ill-fitting yoga clothes then unknowingly caught sun bleached seaweed atop its head in an asymmetrical swoop came galumphing into the clubroom. Ignoring the loose line of children, this entity power walked straight into the bathroom. A moment later it burst out bellowing.
“Who is in charge?” the thing clamored.
Taking a deep breath, Cindy moved in.
“How can I help you?” Cindy asked.
“There are boys in the women’s room!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cindy said. “They’re just washing their hands.”
“But it’s the women’s room,” she shouted. “The boys can’t be in there.”
“The boy’s room is broken,” Cindy explained. “The only other bathrooms are on the other side of the park. This is easier.”
“This is a public bathroom. Boys can’t be in there!”
I grew out of white knight syndrome a long time ago. As such, I feel no need to rush to a woman’s rescue, especially when it’s obvious she’s not a damsel in distress. Sure, the jellyfish demon with Peking duck skin howled monstrously, but Cindy stood unflinching. She moved only to block the spray of green spittle flying from the angry creature’s unmasked mouth as it ranted. Several times one could easily see droplets splashing on Cindy’s clothes as she moved to prevent the spritz from showering children.
“Hey mister,” a kid asked. “What’s for lunch?”
“A big scoop of shut the fuck up,” I said. “I’m trying to watch this.”
The jabbering jellyfish homunculus stuck to one point. That boys do not belong in the women’s bathroom. This, it believed, constituted a universal truth which needed no other elaboration than its tautological explanation.
“Boys can’t be in the women’s room. Men are not allowed in the girl’s room.”
For her own part, Cindy tried several different logical avenues. When the opening course through the busted bathroom proved ineffective, she deftly switched tactics. However, each rational route ran into an obstinate brick wall. The impasse inherent in arguing with stupid people who think they’re in the right. Facts, reason, and logic become as useful as a glass axe chopping down a tree. Running out of options, Cindy risked a less direct more abstract approach.
“It’s not really that big a deal is it?” she asked. “I mean, what’re you afraid of? Some kids might discover everyone uses a toilet?”
“Boys. Go. In. The. Boy’s room.”
“To do the same thing girls do,” Cindy replied. “You’re making their gender sound like something real, or absolute. It doesn’t really matter.”
“How can you say something so stupid?” the jellyfish wailed. “I don’t know what diseased notions you’re exposing these children too, but I will not let it continue. Someone has to protect the children. I am going to get you fired. You’re what’s wrong with the world.”
As it spoke, the jellyfish lumbered around the room. The whole incident began to feel like a display. Something akin to a wrestler working the mic. Oh, let me tell you something brother, you better watch your ass because tonight Kare-Bear the Rat-licker is coming to see the manager. It’s been five whole minutes since she flexed; crushed someone for an honest easily reparable mistake, and she is gonna run wild over any opposition.
She even pulled out a phone insisting she intended to phone the police. As someone who’s seen disinterested cops reluctantly cross the street to stop a man from beating a woman, I wondered how much they’d care. Yet, her righteous crusade demanded a dramatic end to the perversion of these children. The innocents indoctrinated by washing their hands in the wrong bathroom.
“And the police aren’t messy around anymore,” the jellyfish said. “They aren’t afraid to put people like you in your place.”
She started dialing. Cindy seemed about to speak then said nothing. Her head suddenly turned down, eyes on the floor. That felt like a cue. Cracking my knuckles, I took a step forward ready to tag in until Cindy got her strength back. However, I then noticed that without her constant attention, chaos steadily filled the room.
Kids drifted from the line. Teenagers focused on their phones. The gas molecules flew about the room like lightspeed pinballs. So, I set about wrangling kiddies, rousing the teens back to work, though all while keeping an eye on Cindy.
The jellyfish oni oozed over to leer above Cindy. She poised a finger over the call button on her phone.
“I’m about end your whole world,” the jellyfish smiled.
Cindy looked up, and the demon flinched.
“Look here lady,” Cindy said. “A couple kids washing their motherfucking hands isn’t the root of all evil. Unlike your banshee rat-licker mouth spitting all kinds of plague you disgusting dimwitted dumpster fire. Call the police. Call them. Then when they get here, I’ll explain how you died.”
“I…”
“Will kill you.”
“Have never…”
“Seen death,” Cindy said. “And I am She.”
The jellyfish hesitated. Cindy took a lunging step. The jellyfish hurried for the exit.
Instructing the teens to start handing out lunches—prepackaged meals—I sidled over to Cindy. She stood glaring at the empty air.
“That was awesome,” I said.
She turned towards me. Though I couldn’t see a smile, I suspected one spread. Yet, the look in her eyes implied madness in any grin. Cindy’s eyes started to shatter red. She shut her gazers and when they opened, the crimson cracks were gone, the glossy white returned. She shivered like someone swallowing a harsh shot of alcohol.
“Sorry about that,” she said.
“No worries,” I said.
Nodding, she moved away. After making sure the kids got fed, she slipped outside. Leaving teens in charge, I went after her with two cups of punch.
I found her behind a tree smoking a cigarette. At first, she tried to hide the smoke until she saw who it was.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re not setting any bad examples for me.”
I handed her a cup. She thanked me with a whisper. I pulled out a mini bottle. Reluctantly, she accepted. I offered both, but she only took one.
“To the world we live in,” I raised my cup. “It can’t last forever.”
Cindy clinked my cup. We stood six feet apart in order to safely take our masks off and drink. Between sips, I shared some of my own encounters with similar suburban fauna, Karenabitchosaurus Rex. Joking about such incidents carried us through the rest of the day.
“Could you help that girl with her glue?” Cindy asked.
“That depends,” I said. “Is there a certain way she should do it? I don’t want to turn her into a glue pervert.”
The next day I arrived looking forward to work. That is until I saw an old balding man in the clubroom. He introduced himself as Lionel, founder of the Chi-Travelers Camp. He said he would be leading the day camp since a torrent of phone calls and email complaints forced him to fire Cindy.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” I said.
“We work with kids,” Lionel shrugged. “I can’t take chances on any negative perceptions. Anyway, the bus will be here at eleven to take us on our first travel trip. We’re visiting a spot in the city—hey, where’re you going?”
“I quit.”
That night I sat on the roof of my home smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey. The tiki torch suburban mystics gathered to thank their elephant god for keeping them plague free one more day. Picking up the BB gun next to me I took aim.
Let trouble come. The wicked are already making Hell on Earth. No sense in allowing them to enjoy it.
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