how to destroy a babysitter

when we were kids, my brother and i had three babysitters.

one was the ultra-hip julie, high school daughter of my first (and second) grade teacher. groovy, sexy, fantasy inducing and all about let's-have-fun-now. she was our favorite. we'd go to movies sometimes and talk about the merits of different colored jujy fruits and take turns with her throwing the black ones on the floor. sadly, she was rarely available.

another was mrs. world. old, just a bit stodgy, definitely a support-hose type and just a tad too prone to starting sentences with "you boys ..." however this was more-than-made up for by the fact that she was an avid card player (my brother and i would take alternate turns kicking her ass in any game she wanted to deal) and good cook. as far as babysitters go, she was certainly good enough when you couldn't have the best.

the third was eunice. {i'm sitting here laughing out loud just thinking about what i'm going to say next. really, with a name like that, haven't i already told the best possible punch-line?}

we hated her.

she was a wrinkled old bag that was a hardcore obsessive fundamental insane sub-cult type of christian. if you can picture the classic hallowe'en cut-out witch, and put a bible in her hand, you'd have eunice -- both in looks and depth of personal character.

we had a loving nickname for her, "the prune," which would always make our mom pseudo-gasp, but would make our dad laugh (he started using the phrase as well and said, more than once, that he hated her too -- once going so far as to suggest, "maybe we should just let those boys be unsupervised instead of under the guidance of that goddamn bible-thumpin' prune." adding a favorite aside of my dad's, an off-handed, "they're smarter than she is anyway").

our mom worked nights at the hospital to support the family -- it let her be at home during the day and our family was strapped enough that the 10 cents an hour differential for nights mattered. when our dad was traveling, we'd get a sitter. and one oh-so-fateful day, it was the prune.

it was summer (read to us kids' minds: THE GREATEST SEASON OF ALL) and our dad was out of town on extended business. the prune was over, and fortunately, no one had been possessed by demons during the night. even though we wanted cereal for breakfast, she insisted on making scrambled eggs, and proceeded to do it using something close to a half a gallon of milk in the process.

the result was truly disgusting. even now i have trouble thinking about it -- feeling about the same as i would if i'd seen a fatal accident happen on the highway and trying to recount it from memory. the image of eggs in a steaming milk puddle still haunts me deeply.

when she served it, i took one bite and decided that was more than plenty. no mas. i asked for a piece of toast and then asked to be excused from the table.

"no, you may not be excused. you have to sit here until you eat it all."

i smoldered. i look at my brother and can see he's just as thrilled about this stiuation as i am.

but, with just a little thinking, i start to see a possible blessing-in-disguise here. "okay." i look at my brother, and for the first time in my memory, he shoots a knowing glance back. the clock says it's a little after 07:00. mom will be home in about 30 minutes, later if things go bad at work. so i sat in my grand prix pajamas and waited. and waited. and waited.

my brother sat too. we didn't talk or fight with each other. we just waited. my brother was always a zen master, able to do unbelievable things from the age of about one week old on, like make himself suddenly too heavy to pick up. waiting was a joyous an experience for him as was any waking activity -- it was just something you did in the thing called "life." you could, as my mom will quickly relate to you even to this very day, "tell him to stand in the corner as punishment and he'd figure out how to weave the drapes."

i didn't have those mental faculties, so instead i went to my "happy place." a place where the prune roasted 'til popping over the coals. a fire that, very hopefully, would be stoked by my soon-to-be incensed mother.

time passed.

after a quarter of an hour or so the prune said, "all right. you boys have waited enough. you can go play now, but you'll get no more food."

it was my brother who said, "no. we made a deal. we'll wait."

and this moment was crystalline and superb. it was very precisely, even to my child mind, the cracking point. she was panicked, because she could see the future playing out. and it was, clearly, a plan so perfect that it was unbreakable.

in desperation she cleared the plates and said, in a laughing-joking-god-save-my-mortal-soul way, "okay. no reason to sit now," following it with the psychologically telling, "the plates are cleared, right?"

now in unison we say, "we made a deal. we''ll wait."

she's shaking, she's nervous. she's begging us to get up. in response, my brother and i both just sit and act spaced-out.

about 15 minutes after she was supposed to be home, my mom walks in. one of the truly great things about my dad being an alcoholic was it gave us kids the ability to read anyone's mood in about two seconds. and we both could see she'd clearly had a bad night. this, as sick as it is to say, was a good thing.

"hi mom!"

"hi."

a little overly-cheery i say, "can we be excused from the table?"

mom comes in the kitchen and with a very sideways glance hesitantly says, "sure, why?"

i'd been planning this speech all day.

i look at my pajama feet like i'm ashamed, "because eunice ..." i'd never talked about a person who was actually in the room in the third person before -- it was so cool "... said that we had to sit until we ate all of our breakfast. and i tried mom, but i just couldn't do it." tears are welling in my eyes. i sneak a peek at my brother and he's smirking. i wave him off and he immediately gets all puppy-dog eyed and looks at my mom saying the most sincere "yeah," a supporting actor has ever put down on film.

we're both a little too eager to go on, but there's no need. it's clear this has worked like a charm. i can already see the veins standing out on her neck.

"yes, you boys are excused."

"thanks mom!" and my ever-inspired brother gives her a thanks-for-supporting-us-in-jail hug on the way out of the kitchen.

mom takes the prune into my brother's bedroom, and proceeds to yell loud enough that it didn't matter that she'd closed the door behind them. lots of "don't you ever's" and "how dare you's" and the always-thrilling "those are good boys."

the prune came out crying and for the first time in my life, i truly understood how someone could feel joy from someone else's misery. my brother and i are openly laughing as she's leaving the house. i say, "see ya!"

and my mom snaps back, "no you won't," and then catches herself. and then gets the giggles.

now we're all laughing. my mom starts laughing so hard that she's crying.

and that, was the very last we ever saw of the prune.

we had a poem we wrote about her as kids (it may have been a song, but i don't think so). this seems like the perfect time to share it with you, my dear, dear, faithful reader:

plant the prune

you'll get a prune tree

but don't eat the prunes

they're poisonous