Chirping

A lone chirp

Can be silenced

By the stomping of one’s heel.

How easy it is to squelch

Individuality

With an authoritative boot.

But the lone soldier

Will reignite

The call

Once it senses the all-clear

Little wondering

If the threat can still hear it.

So should we all:

Call out

To our silenced brethren

For doing so

Will ignite

The harmonious stirrings

Of hope

Among the lowly

And the alone.

Short Story: My Nemesis: The Four Year Old

To start with, his name was Timmy.  No wait.  Maybe, Jimmy?  No, wait. Billy. Definitely Billy.  Nope. Sorry.  Timmy.  His name was Timmy.  I’d had seen his ilk before.  Especially in the old days.  A playground ruffian, full of sass.  Not an outright bully.  No.  I'm talking the kind of kid who could get the yard ladies to do his dirty work.  Remember yard ladies?  Did anyone else call them yard ladies?  Do they even have those anymore?  Anyway, Timmy was that kind of kid.  Oh yeah, and my son’s best friend.

  It started innocently enough.  My son, Jared had just started preschool, and had quickly earned himself a nice little group of friends: Sydney, Charlie, Jeremy, and Todd.  Thank God for Todd, man, because that’s a lot of y names.  All the more reason why I couldn’t stand Timmy.  I’m positive his name was Timmy now.  I mean, how generic can you get?  God, just mentioning his name is causing my blood pressure to rise.  But when it’s coupled with the word “says” I just lose it!  I mean that’s how it really started.

 Jared came home from preschool about six weeks in.  He arrived cheerily enough, and opened with this phrase:  “Timmy says!”

 Not, hi daddy. Not, hey dad.  No I love you papa!  Nope.  Immediately, Jared greeted me with, “Timmy says.”

 “Timmy says we’re playing transformers all day today.  Whrrr!  Bzzzzz.  Zip!  I am Doctormus Crime!  Whee-ooo!  Prepare to transformulate!”

 What the fuck?

 “Wow, Jared, honey!”  I stammered at him.  “That’s, yeah, that’s, um cool…”

 “Thanks,” chirped my boy.  Usually, he would say something like Thanks Daddy or You know it, Pops!  But not, today.

 “Hey, you know what buddy? I could get all my old transformers out the basement!  You want me to do that for ya?”  I called out to him, like a sleazy used car salesman.

 “No thanks!  I’m gonna be a transformer!  Timmy says, that’s way more fun!  See ya!”

 Timmy says.

 Might as well have said, Cut the shit, Dad!

 So instead of playing, I went about my business.  Read the paper.  Checked my phone.  I would have much prefered to bust out the old toys and play around on the floor for a whole five minutes and then checked my phone repeatedly, but no.  Instead I listened to Jared run around his playroom in semi-isolation, pretending to have Timmy right there beside him.  Timmy.  A real child who I had vaguely seen going into one of hundreds of silver minivans at preschool pick-up time.  Now if Timmy were imaginary, I could have lived with the fact that my son was going through a phase.  But sadly, Timmy’s existence proved to be an immovable threat to our father-son relationship, and Daddy was not having it!

The play date.

I could very well blame my wife for all this, as she orchestrated all the activities in and outside of our home.  Never one to be too organized myself, this arrangement was one of the many unspoken concessions in our marriage agreement.  In fact, I didn’t often care where we went or what we did.  Like most males in society, I am happy to be told where and when I should show up or expect things to happen; no questions asked.  Now you may think me weak for doing so, but given that most men operate this way, means you are judging most men as weak.  Therefore, if you are a male reader thinking this, then you are offending yourself or someone you know.  And if you are a female reader thinking I am weak, is it because you actually lack this power yourself or are you guilty of taking it?

I thought so.  

Anywho, I’m not meaning to take this out on you or my wife.  It’s Timmy who is the real threat here!  We mustn’t forget that, otherwise, all that I did would be for naught.

 As I was saying, the playdate came.  Timmy and his mom were coming over for one supposedly glorious afternoon.  Snacks had been made by me.  The house swept--an occurrence that hadn’t happened in at least three years; my wife and I were positive of this.  I don’t know if we were intentionally trying to make a good impression; we simply didn’t want to look or feel like slobs.  Part of me wanted to leave a slight mess in the guest bathroom.  But I wasn’t going to give Timmy or his mother the satisfaction of knowing how we truly lived.  Let them both think, life in our house is practically perfect.  I mean, everybody else does it!

 I hated myself.

 The doorbell rang.  She was prompt.  I really started to hate this woman.  I immediately grew tense.  My wife knowing this threw me psychic links with her eyes.  I assume these meant something like: be cool or calm down.  But I’m not psychic.  She forgets this from time to to time.  It’s kind of annoying.

 Timmy came through the door first.  He was wearing overalls. I resisted the urge to start wondering if this meant his family were all conservative fascists who solely loved Nascar and John Deer tractors, but I am notorious for thinking thoughts of stereotype, and sadly my thoughts are instant.  Fortunately, I knew better than to utter my prejudices aloud.  I mean, come on, I’m not a complete moron.  Needless to say, pleasantries and greeting were exchanged.  The ubiquitous muttering of “your-house-is-lovely” softly ushered forth from Timmy’s mom’s lips.  And it was accompanied by a rather lax handshake.

 What a bitch.

 My wife did the introduction of names.

 “I’m Faye,” she said.  “And this is my husband, Ronald.”

“Ronald?” rejoined Timmy’s mother.  It seemed like a question. Was she confused?  And honestly, what is confusing about my name?

“Yeah, Ronald,” I said with a smile, “like the clown!”

Timmy’s mom laughed a bit too loud and hard at that.  I knew it was a lame joke ever since I made it up in middle school.  Why was she trying so hard?  How stupid was this woman?

My wife, Faye, sensing my growing distaste, due to what must be her actual psychic powers, quickly took over the situation:

“Yes, well, snack, anyone?”

I brought out the celery with peanut butter; it is my go-to snack for playdates.  I don’t know why.  My wife, not having consulted with me over it, met me halfway between the kitchen and the living room before I could set the snack down for our guests.

“Why did you make those?” she whispered harshly.

“What?” I whispered back, somewhat annoyed.  “You know it’s my go-to snack for playdates. I don’t know why.”

“What if Timmy is allergic?” breathed my wife, as if I were carrying a flamethrower or live grenade.

“Seriously? I know some kids are allergic, but do I---”

“You had one job…”

Suddenly, I wished for an actual live hand grenade.

“What?  You want me to just throw them out?” I hissed, only whispering every other word now.

I glanced over and thought I saw Timmy’s mother looking at us.  In judgement.

“I don’t know,” sighed Faye.  She noticeably appeared to be regretting her chastisement of me over this snack.

“Well?” I stated, impatiently and somewhat victoriously.

“Um, [insert Timmy’s mom’s actual name],” my wife called out to our guest, “is, um, your Timmy, allergic to peanut butter, by chance?”

“No, not really,” she replied.

Okay two things:

First:  You may have noticed the brackets in the previous statements, and I have to be honest, I can’t for the life of me remember this woman’s name.  Yeah, I could make something up, or try to remember, as I did Timmy.  But I’m not like that.  She is a grown woman, and she deserves to be called by her real name.  And besides, I feel bad enough as it is.

Second:  What the hell does “No, not really” mean here?  Either he’s allergic to peanut butter or not!

God, I hated this woman.

Faye and I walked the snack together to the coffee table.  Needless to say, my wife’s escorting me felt unnecessary, uncomfortable, and awkward.  And if you’re bothered by the redundancy of the phrasing, then you have an inkling of what I was feeling like when it happened.  I mean, what was she afraid of? Did she think I was going to drop it? Fling it across the room at our guests? Shove the celery sticks up my nose and perform a routine?  For crying out loud, they weren’t peas I could shoot out!

Honestly, I love my wife, but I don’t often understand her motives or actions.  And perhaps at some point we will need counseling.  But the reality is, there are a thousand things she doesn’t understand about me and it’s not her fault--because I don’t understand my actions either.  So I say, we’re even.

And here’s the thing!  This whole Timmy situation had me doubting my marriage!  And not only was I judging a woman who I had been with for fourteen years, but I was also judging a woman I had never met before!  And you know, this wasn’t me!  What had I become thanks to this Timmy?

Oh, if only it had stopped there.

The rest of the play date went fine. The boys played very nicely.   And how could they not? Timmy was brainwashing my child every chance he got!  Forcing Jared to play only what Timmy wanted to play!  I desperately wanted to say something, but Jared was being so damn agreeable!  In fact, I couldn’t believe his willingness to just let Timmy make all the decisions!  I mean who does that? Was my boy really that weak?

Okay.  I know what you’re thinking.  He obviously takes after me.  I know that!  But let’s be clear, Timmy is not Faye.  Jared is not marrying Timmy.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to having a gay son.  Hell, Jared can marry whomever he wants.  See, that’s not the issue here.  We’re forgetting the one important thing:

Timmy is a jerk!

Yep. I said it.  Now I love kids.  They’re sweet.  They say cute things.  Heck, they say the darndest things!  They all have infectious and beautiful laughs.  And Timmy was no exception.  BUT.  He had my attention, and it was beginning to spell doom for us all.

Timmy and his mom left after about an hour and a half.  Everything was fine and civil during that time.  Upon shutting the door, my wife said,

“See that wasn’t so bad.”

I wanted to scream at her and argue, but I knew it wasn’t her fault.  It was Timmy.  He had my boy’s attention too.  And it was killing me. I didn’t know why, and I wasn’t about to analyze it.  That would be insane!  Yes, I was jealous of Timmy.   Yes, I had my own unresolved childhood issues.  Yes, I was an insufferable man-child who could easily blame this on my mother, but why?  Was I really that textbook?  And how could any of this be classified as Oedipal or whatever the hell Freud would call it?  Sorry, but I don’t buy that psycho-bullshit!

Besides, nothing was going to stop these feelings.  And I already hated myself enough NOT to want to put a label on it.  It was much easier and far more gratifying to hate Timmy.

Timmy.  People will argue whether, he, a four year old, was cognizant of his actions toward me.  Meanwhile no one will argue that I wasn’t cognizant of my actions.  See, we all assume that the adult brain is quite cognizant of things, and if it isn’t, then we are labelled unbalanced, insane, etc.  But as I have stated: ain’t nobody got time for labels.  Besides, my interactions with Timmy were already plaguing me, and being replayed in my head ad nauseum.  And these feelings of remorse reassured me that I wasn’t a sociopath, and that “not a sociopath” label was enough to give me the confidence that some of my feelings were not completely invalid.

Welcome to the double-edge sword of psychological self-diagnosis!

Anywho, it wasn’t long before I found myself acting on my feelings.  It was pick-up time at preschool some weeks later.  Now in my defense, there are literally hundreds of silver mini-vans similar to mine going in and out of the pick-up zone at this time.  And you probably see where I’m going with this, but I’m going to state the facts as best as I can, for obvious and judiciary reasons.  Firstly, I was NOT alone in the car.  My son was waiting on the curb and about to enter the van.  Timmy was my son’s friend.  At the time, none of this could have been construed as an issue.

“Hey, Timmy,” I said through the car window, as I wheeled slowly and cautiously into the pickup zone.  “What say you get in here...with Jared.”

I realize now my words could have been better chosen, worded differently, and stated in several more appropriate and less perverse tones.

“Um, sir,” came a voice from the curb.  “Are you here to pick-up Timmy?”

“Er, yeah, sure,” I said, not as confidently as one would hope.

“Well, sir,” responded the curb voice, “we require written notice from a parent if someone other than the designated person is coming to pick-up students.”

“Oh, yeah, um, well, Timmy’s mom is good.  She, uh, said she was gonna call.”

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll have to radio the office before--”

What happened next is a blur. Was it Jared who pulled Timmy into the van?  Or did Timmy climb aboard pulling Jared along?  Indeed, I suspect Timmy had orchestrated the whole thing!  I know I didn’t force him into the van as I was in the driver’s seat the whole time!  I don’t want to say I blacked out, but honestly, the details are fuzzy:

The two toddlers seemingly collapsed into the back of my van.  My hand floated in mid-air.  Was I pressing the button to automatically close the passenger door or had Timmy pressed it from inside the car? Things were unclear.  Suddenly, I felt my foot push down on the gas, all while the voice from the curb shouted:  “No, wait, sir, you can’t!”

Shit.

I drove up the block.  The road I was on did not appear conducive to turning around.  My wife has never understood why I have trouble pulling into random driveways or simply pulling off to the side of the road at convenient times.  Sadly, I have this nagging feeling that the car behind me will become so annoyed with my actions, and in fit of rage, honk very loudly!

Yeah, I have lots of issues.

When I arrived at a stop sign, my head had begun to clear.  The children were making loud, delirious sounds from the back of the van due to the fact that neither were strapped in by any safety harnesses.  Now I couldn’t have been going more than 25 MPH, but what would the police say?  How exactly did this experience rate on the child endangerment scale?  Or the kidnapping scale for that matter?  What had I done?

Please, oh, please God, let this be a humorous anecdote some day.

When I realized the children’s tiny voices were neither in pain or terror, I fully came to my senses.  And it was with dread that I made my way back to the pick-up zone at 18 MPH.

When I returned back the school, the voice from the curb now manifested into a large disgruntled looking woman whose anger was being accented by her standard bright orange safety vest.  Timmy’s mother was standing beside her.  An immutable expression of confusion mixed with fear and anger was etched on her face.  I attempted to disarm it with a smile I hoped she would later come to realize was part of the amusing joy ride experienced by her son.

In my head, I said:  Be cool, now, Timmy.  Mommy’s watching.  I know you’re incapable of anything but malice towards me, but for once in our relationship, just be cool!  And if you ever want to hang out with Jared again, say nothing!

Silently, after putting the van in park, I pushed the automatic door button above my mirror, releasing the boy. Timmy quickly picked himself off of the floor of my van, and giggled himself silly out the door.  Was he mocking me?

At last, I spoke:  “Um, my bad.”  Then I very smoothly drove away.  I think Jared had managed to buckle himself in, but either way, I knew I needed to be gone.

When I arrived home, I expected my wife to be standing in the driveway like an irate sitcom star.  She was not.  Therefore, it was with great guilt and self-loathing that I entered the house, carrying my son like a shield to protect me from any verbal onslaught.  (Not my best parent moment for sure; but there’s no need to keep count of this, now is there?)  I then suspected that my wife was on the phone to either Timmy’s mom or the school, apologizing for her husband’s idiot behavior.  And surprisingly, she was not.

In fact, nothing came of the incident.  Yet, like any self-respecting person, I was ready to deny the whole thing, or at the very least pretend it never happened, and mention nothing. Things were going smoothly at home.  I proceeded to casually put away coats and bags.  I didn’t engage in any real conversation.  A simple greeting was all we exchanged.  Jared immediately set about playing.  Not until supper had been prepared was the dreaded question raised:

“So Jared,” my wife began.  “How was preschool today?”

Be cool, kid. Be cool.

“Good,” said Jared.  “Timmy says we’re gonna be best friends forever.  I’m gonna play Legos now! Bye!”

Best. Friends. FOREVER.

God, I fucking hated Timmy…

END

©2017  S. Michaels