One night my neighbors asked me to babysit their kid.
“Normally, you’re the last person we’d ask,” Tony is honest to a fault.
I could only reply, “I did try to burn your house down.”
Melissa said, “But we believe you when you say it was an accident.”
“I had the wrong house.”
Tony waved it off, “It was dark.”
“I was drunk.”
Melissa forced a smile, “These things happen.”
Parenting is like deep sea diving, an exhilarating treacherous ordeal only a few people can really do well; a constant strain requiring occasional, however temporary, relief. After a long spell in the deep, sensing a chance to surface, their bodies go into a kind of quivering rigor mortis like a champagne cork anxious to explode. Tony and Melissa stood in just such a state of twitching desperation, desirous of any chance to talk about something other than the latest exploits of carton ponies, or the creepy behavior of imaginary friends – “Ginger doesn’t need eyes. So she pulled them out, and threw them away.”
Fate, it seemed, had conspired against them leaving these two suburbanites without anyone to watch over their precious child. Being their last chance to temporarily abandon parental responsibility, I sensed an opportunity, “Twenty bucks an hour, and I can go nuts on your liquor cabinet when you get back.”
“Deal,” Melissa said before Tony could haggle. She tossed me their house keys, grabbed Tony by the wrist, and tossed him in the passenger seat. The two then burned rubber out of the cul-de-sac. I calmly finished my beer then headed over.
I found their spawn – Jaimie? Amy? Circe? – much as I expected: zombie eyed in front of the TV.
“Hey,” I said.
The kid glanced at me. She waved. Eyes went back to the screen, and I figured this should be easy enough.
Plopping on the couch I said, “I’m the sitter by the way. I don’t have a badge or anything, but you should get in the habit of asking folks why they’re in your house.”
“Ok,” the kid said, and I felt like I’d done my part to make her a better person. It seemed like a lesson her parents should’ve already taught her, but I digress. After about three hours I decided eleven o’clock is late enough for a six year old, so I informed the kid it was time for bed.
She yawned as she protested, “But I don’t wanna.”
I said, “Aw, how cute. You think that matters.”
“Will you play me a story?” she asked.
“You mean read.”
“No, play. Mommy and Daddy play me a story every night.”
Intrigued I inquired, “What do you mean?”
She led me upstairs. I helped her into an adorable set of tiger themed pajamas then she got a tablet off an empty bookshelf. She held it up to me. Turning it on revealed a folder on the main screen inside of which a set of audio files waited to play. These included all the children’s classics such as Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White as well as others I’d never heard of like Juan the Frog Hops Away from Racists.
“This frog’s got the right idea,” I said.
She nodded several times, “He hop, hop hops and never stops going away from bad things.”
“I see that.” Scrolling through, “Hops away from Strangers… Drugs… the Bad Touch… Unsavory Lending Practices. I guess the well is running dry. What do you want me to play?”
“Can we play one I never heard?”
“Which one haven’t your heard?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard it.”
I sighed, “Look, Groucho, my buzz wore off an hour ago, so can the funny shit, or we’re listening to Juan Hopes Away from the Love Canal. That seems oddly specific.”
“There’s one Daddy never plays. He says he got it by accident. He thought it was some other story.”
“What’s it called?”
“Chelsea Grin.”
I found the file. Shrugged, why not? Tony didn’t delete it, so how bad could it be? A lot of parents are overprotective anyhow. The old fairytales used to be grim – no pun intended. I tapped the icon. While it started I tucked the kid into bed. She pointed at a stuffed, plush fox. I handed it to her. She smiled. Eyes half closed she listened.
A gravely British voice spoke:
“Used to be a girl lived down the lane
Both parents nine kinds of insane.
She was never known to complain
Even said, “We only get one brain,”
Though her eyes sometimes seemed to form
A raging storm
Dour shower
Sour glower,
Perhaps to drain the damp that molders,
Then a shrug of the shoulders
Her sky clears,
No more sign of tears.
She sighs a bit,
But having lost the fit
Skips home
Shiny as chrome.
Until one night
The house all alight
Every bulb burning
The girl learning
The depths of Dad’s abyss.
Thought he’d been remiss
In protecting his pearl,
Lovely little girl
Needed what’s best.
Kept closely appressed
By Mum, who’s folie à deux
Easily afforded a view
Of the sentiment,
It’s intended betterment,
In giving their girl a grin
No cruel could ever win,
Stripping it off her face;
Her parents told her to brace
For surgery.
At no risk of perjury
On the kitchen floor
They committed the horror
Sliced a Chelsea style
Bloody gaping smile…
And she wore it every day
With only kind words to say,
“They meant well.
I see no need to dwell.
What’s done is done.
It’s not like they had fun.”
Such kindness
Inspiring blindness,
No neighbor noticing sight or sound,
Voiceless to a visiting sleuthhound
About any ax strike
Proving the girl a shrike.
Once, twice, three, six times
Repaying all the crimes
Of her family she tried to bear
As if without a care.
Misery well vented
She walks the lane contented.”
A hiss of crackling static ending in a pop, and the audio stopped. The kid sat in bed wide eyed clutching her fox.
She said, “So her parents cut a smile in her face then she killed them with an ax.”
Perceptive kid – I nodded, “That is the gist of it, yes.” I added, “Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve let you listen to this.”
“I liked it!” She beamed, “Are there more? More like that?”
“Well let’s see – shit!” I saw a car pulling into the driveway, “It’s your parents.” Snapping off the bedroom light I said, “Keep this between us, and I’ll find you more.”
“Okay!”
I hurried downstairs to meet Melissa and Tony. Pleased to see the house intact, Melissa floated upstairs, while Tony paid me.
Tony said, “You want a drink? I got some good stuff here.”
“Well…”
At the edge of my hearing I heard the soft conversation upstairs:
“Hi sweetie. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Mommy, I want a Chelsea Grin.”
“What’s a Chelsea Grin?”
On that note, “I should really get going.”
And I raced back to my house. Locking the door I sighed, “This is why I can’t have kids. Motherfuckers don’t know how to keep their goddamn mouths shut.”
“Normally, you’re the last person we’d ask,” Tony is honest to a fault.
I could only reply, “I did try to burn your house down.”
Melissa said, “But we believe you when you say it was an accident.”
“I had the wrong house.”
Tony waved it off, “It was dark.”
“I was drunk.”
Melissa forced a smile, “These things happen.”
Parenting is like deep sea diving, an exhilarating treacherous ordeal only a few people can really do well; a constant strain requiring occasional, however temporary, relief. After a long spell in the deep, sensing a chance to surface, their bodies go into a kind of quivering rigor mortis like a champagne cork anxious to explode. Tony and Melissa stood in just such a state of twitching desperation, desirous of any chance to talk about something other than the latest exploits of carton ponies, or the creepy behavior of imaginary friends – “Ginger doesn’t need eyes. So she pulled them out, and threw them away.”
Fate, it seemed, had conspired against them leaving these two suburbanites without anyone to watch over their precious child. Being their last chance to temporarily abandon parental responsibility, I sensed an opportunity, “Twenty bucks an hour, and I can go nuts on your liquor cabinet when you get back.”
“Deal,” Melissa said before Tony could haggle. She tossed me their house keys, grabbed Tony by the wrist, and tossed him in the passenger seat. The two then burned rubber out of the cul-de-sac. I calmly finished my beer then headed over.
I found their spawn – Jaimie? Amy? Circe? – much as I expected: zombie eyed in front of the TV.
“Hey,” I said.
The kid glanced at me. She waved. Eyes went back to the screen, and I figured this should be easy enough.
Plopping on the couch I said, “I’m the sitter by the way. I don’t have a badge or anything, but you should get in the habit of asking folks why they’re in your house.”
“Ok,” the kid said, and I felt like I’d done my part to make her a better person. It seemed like a lesson her parents should’ve already taught her, but I digress. After about three hours I decided eleven o’clock is late enough for a six year old, so I informed the kid it was time for bed.
She yawned as she protested, “But I don’t wanna.”
I said, “Aw, how cute. You think that matters.”
“Will you play me a story?” she asked.
“You mean read.”
“No, play. Mommy and Daddy play me a story every night.”
Intrigued I inquired, “What do you mean?”
She led me upstairs. I helped her into an adorable set of tiger themed pajamas then she got a tablet off an empty bookshelf. She held it up to me. Turning it on revealed a folder on the main screen inside of which a set of audio files waited to play. These included all the children’s classics such as Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White as well as others I’d never heard of like Juan the Frog Hops Away from Racists.
“This frog’s got the right idea,” I said.
She nodded several times, “He hop, hop hops and never stops going away from bad things.”
“I see that.” Scrolling through, “Hops away from Strangers… Drugs… the Bad Touch… Unsavory Lending Practices. I guess the well is running dry. What do you want me to play?”
“Can we play one I never heard?”
“Which one haven’t your heard?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard it.”
I sighed, “Look, Groucho, my buzz wore off an hour ago, so can the funny shit, or we’re listening to Juan Hopes Away from the Love Canal. That seems oddly specific.”
“There’s one Daddy never plays. He says he got it by accident. He thought it was some other story.”
“What’s it called?”
“Chelsea Grin.”
I found the file. Shrugged, why not? Tony didn’t delete it, so how bad could it be? A lot of parents are overprotective anyhow. The old fairytales used to be grim – no pun intended. I tapped the icon. While it started I tucked the kid into bed. She pointed at a stuffed, plush fox. I handed it to her. She smiled. Eyes half closed she listened.
A gravely British voice spoke:
“Used to be a girl lived down the lane
Both parents nine kinds of insane.
She was never known to complain
Even said, “We only get one brain,”
Though her eyes sometimes seemed to form
A raging storm
Dour shower
Sour glower,
Perhaps to drain the damp that molders,
Then a shrug of the shoulders
Her sky clears,
No more sign of tears.
She sighs a bit,
But having lost the fit
Skips home
Shiny as chrome.
Until one night
The house all alight
Every bulb burning
The girl learning
The depths of Dad’s abyss.
Thought he’d been remiss
In protecting his pearl,
Lovely little girl
Needed what’s best.
Kept closely appressed
By Mum, who’s folie à deux
Easily afforded a view
Of the sentiment,
It’s intended betterment,
In giving their girl a grin
No cruel could ever win,
Stripping it off her face;
Her parents told her to brace
For surgery.
At no risk of perjury
On the kitchen floor
They committed the horror
Sliced a Chelsea style
Bloody gaping smile…
And she wore it every day
With only kind words to say,
“They meant well.
I see no need to dwell.
What’s done is done.
It’s not like they had fun.”
Such kindness
Inspiring blindness,
No neighbor noticing sight or sound,
Voiceless to a visiting sleuthhound
About any ax strike
Proving the girl a shrike.
Once, twice, three, six times
Repaying all the crimes
Of her family she tried to bear
As if without a care.
Misery well vented
She walks the lane contented.”
A hiss of crackling static ending in a pop, and the audio stopped. The kid sat in bed wide eyed clutching her fox.
She said, “So her parents cut a smile in her face then she killed them with an ax.”
Perceptive kid – I nodded, “That is the gist of it, yes.” I added, “Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve let you listen to this.”
“I liked it!” She beamed, “Are there more? More like that?”
“Well let’s see – shit!” I saw a car pulling into the driveway, “It’s your parents.” Snapping off the bedroom light I said, “Keep this between us, and I’ll find you more.”
“Okay!”
I hurried downstairs to meet Melissa and Tony. Pleased to see the house intact, Melissa floated upstairs, while Tony paid me.
Tony said, “You want a drink? I got some good stuff here.”
“Well…”
At the edge of my hearing I heard the soft conversation upstairs:
“Hi sweetie. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Mommy, I want a Chelsea Grin.”
“What’s a Chelsea Grin?”
On that note, “I should really get going.”
And I raced back to my house. Locking the door I sighed, “This is why I can’t have kids. Motherfuckers don’t know how to keep their goddamn mouths shut.”
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