The Babysitter at Rest Read online

  From the manual: Party Checklist

  -Aspirational dress (credit card)

  -An extravagant, impressive main dish that takes a long time to prepare

  -Secondary extravagant food item

  -Large decorative serving plates (pure silver, hand-painted ceramic, or wood that’s exotically or locally sourced and has been conditioned by a professional)

  -Elaborate dessert

  -Wines and spirits (hire sommelier, learn mixology)

  -Living houseplants (trash old pots in which plants have died so as not to have dead energy of killed plants present at party)

  -Swept floor (including bathroom, no pubic hair)

  -Clean, non-period/mouth blood-stained bed sheets

  -Disposal of anything college, sentimental photos, travel trinkets, bathroom garbage can full of used pads and tampons, bills, shut off and/or eviction notices, visible electrical cords, pizza boxes, empty wine bottles, X-mas lights, receipts of items you’ve bought that are too expensive and you intended to return but didn’t, self-help books, how-to books, contemporary sophomoric novels, novels by popular novelists

  -Clean litter box/buy new litter (day-of, as you most likely will not keep it clean prior to party)

  -Adult-appropriate tables, chairs, and other furniture (no milk crates—consult catalogs, window displays, and lifestyle websites for how an adult person’s home should look)

  -Incense for covering up chronic bad vibes/trash/mice/roach smell, large sage smudge for putting at least a small dent in stagnant force field within home

  Complaint log

  “Your Complaint Log takes up a good deal of your file,” The Guide says as they take a bubble bath in their robes and drink champagne that I’ve gone to the liquor store to buy at their request. “I’ve never seen one this thick. Yours should be called the Log of Complaints, Self-Pity, and Pouting. The log itself is both a summation of your problems and an indictment of your inability to progress appropriately, or at all. The complaints, repeating often and added onto or edited frequently, are as follows: Category A: ‘Pointless,’ ‘Same shit,’ ‘I’ll never get out of it,’ ‘Extremely high levels of psychic pain,’ ‘Now what?’ ‘Then what?’ ‘Not again,’ ‘I knew this would happen,’ followed by wails/moans/cries; Category B: ‘So easy for other people,’ ‘Who do they think they are?’ ‘Why do they have that?’ ‘Must be nice,’ ‘Princess complex,’ ‘Fool,’ ‘Think they’re pulling one over’; Category C: ‘Not appreciated,’ ‘No one understands’; Category D: ‘Bored,’ ‘Going to kill myself,’ ‘Don’t want to die,’ ‘Not a genius,’ ‘I don’t want to,’ ‘I really don’t want to,’ ‘I especially don’t want to,’ ‘So sad for me,’ ‘Underemployed,’ ‘Unemployed,’ ‘Penniless,’ ‘Childless,’ ‘Old age,’ ‘Nursing home,’ ‘Elder abuse,’ more wails/moans/cries. I could go on, but the log basically cycles from here.” The Guide submerges themselves beneath the bath water for some time.

  Taking stock

  “Take stock of your surroundings,” The Guide tells me as they lie, soaking wet, on my couch. “The physical items that you have valued up to this point will make the state of your existence clear to you. What do you see?”

  “Wobbly shelves; unopened bank statements; a few crystals I thought would cure me of certain character flaws; seashells from a trip I don’t really remember; a photo of my deceased father; rudimentary sketches of since-dead house plants I’d intended to use as still life practice during a time I wanted to take drawing classes; a cheap keyboard from when I thought I could be a musician; a desk I don’t write, draw, or pay bills at; some chairs I found on the street; a coffee table upon which sit books I’ve arranged carefully in hopes they’ll represent me in my current incarnation to visitors. I see cracks in the wall, smudges on the paint, a drooping area in the ceiling where a leak is about to spring next time it rains—or maybe it has to do with a busted pipe. I didn’t dust the floorboards. I have maybe never dusted the floorboards.”

  “Excuse me,” The Guide says. “I fell asleep. What time is it? I don’t have all day.” The Guide goes back to sleep.

  From the manual: Q&A III

  Q: Was there a particular point at which I should have done something different: gone to school for something specific, made professional advances, interned, taken a risk or leap of faith, asked for help, called people back, shown gratitude, applied for a job with a salary and benefits, saved money, gotten insurance, built a community, resigned myself to a relationship with someone for financial stability, had a baby?

  A: Probably.

  Party prep

  While The Guide sleeps, I clean the house; make 10,001-ingredient mole with seventy-two hour prep time (secret ingredients: smoked gold leaf and albino peacock talon paste); bake an eight-tiered cake; hand paint ceramic serving platters with Mexican-style floral design; wear a castor oil wrap; do squats; give myself an enema; abstain from salt; drink herbal diuretic and shit teas; purchase a figure-flattering dress way out of my price range; apply lipstick; and make large, opulent floral arrangements consisting of pin cushion, pink mink, and king protea, hanging amaranthus, blue thistle, white poppies, leucadendron, and both silver dollar and seeded eucalyptus.

  Childhood dreams & identity

  As The Guide sleeps, I tell them the things about myself that I would be too embarrassed to say if they were awake. “I wanted to be a nun when I was a child,” I whisper. “A quiet, cloistered life seemed ideal. Having my own room with thick walls. A desk. A fireplace. Stained glass. Rosaries. Peeling potatoes. Communal tables. Sisterhood in God. The idea is still very appealing, but one does not simply become a nun at thirty-three, especially if one is not at all religious and always horny.” The Guide snores. “I first forgot who I was when I was very young,” I continue. “Or I never knew in the first place and it occurred to me very suddenly. At the moment of realization, I walked out of my backyard and into the street. I was able see the world spinning. It went very fast and made me dizzy. A police officer pulled over and said, ‘What is a little girl doing out here alone?’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Where do you live?’ he said. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How old are you … what’s your name … do you like cops? … No, do you like like cops?’ he said. I didn’t know the answer to any of his questions. I was someone else after that, and since then I’ve forgotten who I was and have become someone else completely over and over again. It’s happened too many times to count.” Drool falls from The Guide’s mouth to their chin and neck. I feel a sense of loss at The Guide having been asleep so long. “I feel a sense of loss when you are asleep,” I whisper, very quietly, near The Guide’s ear. I decide to run to the store to get more tequila for The Guide for when they wake up.

  Chitchat with The Guide

  “I wish you had wings,” I tell The Guide when they wake up. “But your robes are very effective, and so are your clear eyes. And your beautiful hair, and your smile,” I attempt to run my fingers through The Guide’s hair.

  “I’m not here as your fantasy,” The Guide says, swatting my hand away. The Guide does, however, seem pleased at the new bottle of tequila.

  Conversation practice

  In my bedroom, The Guide gives me mock party topics to discuss.

  “Literature,” The Guide says.

  “From Dante, the seventh circle of hell, the Wood of Suicides, is my favorite,” I say.

  “Yes, according to your file you read The Divine Comedy during a brief phase of ephedrine addiction, bulimia, and suicidal ideation in your teens. At your party, the mention of reading classics will be viewed as obnoxious and irrelevant. Either everybody has read them long ago or no one has or ever will, making your position one of little interest. Anyway, that’s everyone’s favorite circle of hell. If you’re going to bring up literature, have something semi-original to say.”

  “How about: The Magic Mountain is a fantasy novel about remaining a baby by luxuriating in a nervous breakdown, napping in fur sleeping bags, and meeting new peopl
e to eat rich meals in the cafeteria.”

  “At thirty-three, your literary references should have developed far past these choices.” The Guide looks out my bedroom window to the night sky. I’d like to make love with The Guide upon my twin bed.

  “New topic: Art,” The Guide says.

  “We’ve reached a time at which things repeat themselves infinitely? The past forty years have ushered in the age of the hack? A mirror facing a mirror? Claiming one’s genius is the new symbol of obsolescence? There is little greatness? There exists only one dimension, defined by self-consciousness, ineptitude, and fear of being found out, an endless playing field populated by players upon which no game is being played, everyone concerned only with how they look in the uniform? Conceptual, archaic, symbiotic, worm-hole, and duff-sitting are popular modes by which to express the absurdity of—”

  “I think you should skip this topic entirely. If it comes up, say ‘Something in the oven!’ And shuffle off to the oven.” The Guide demonstrates shuffling off to the oven. The Guide moves rather quickly given their heavy robes and floor-length hair.

  “The State of Everything,” The Guide says upon returning from the kitchen.

  “Mostly there’s garbage,” I say. The Guide, drunk, smiles.

  Wishful thinking II

  Over the bathroom sink, The Guide shows me the correct way to clean under my nails using a special brush for this specific purpose. In the mirror, The Guide shows me how to brush my teeth properly, how to wash my face. I watch The Guide’s face as they massage walnut shell scrub onto their forehead and cheeks; The Guide looks slightly bored, like they want to clock out, but maybe they’ve just had too much to drink. Though I want The Guide to be interested and engaged by me, I find this look of boredom incredibly alluring. I’m briefly overwhelmed by my attraction to The Guide and lean in to kiss them on the lips.

  “No thank you,” The Guide says.

  Farewells

  The Guide informs me our time together has come to an end. I had not expected our time to end so soon and am likely visibly in shock. I offer to go to the store for more tequila if The Guide will stay. I offer to not speak at all. I offer my bed for them to rest in. I offer to burn my apartment and everything in it down. I offer whatever kind of sex they’re into. “Any type,” I say, “I want to do it.” Nothing works. We begin to say our goodbyes. I try to hug The Guide tightly and then I kiss them on their illuminated cheek, made brighter by the alcohol. I attempt to make plans to see The Guide again or keep in touch somehow, but The Guide makes it clear their job is over and they’re very busy with their own life far away from here. The Guide tells me they will never see me again. I cry for some time after The Guide leaves. They’ve left nothing of themselves in my apartment but the broken screen. I think I was in love with The Guide.

  Part II: The Party

  Arrivals

  Guests arrive between two and three hours late. During this time The Host checks her email and text invitations to make sure she got the date correct. She adds 100 more ingredients to her 10,001-ingredient mole, making it a 10,101-ingredient mole. Additional super secret ingredients: liquefied frankincense and powdered rotten tooth that belonged to The Host, hand ground with a jade mortar and pestle. The Host makes several dozen red frosting roses and calaveras de azúcar and places them on the eight-tier cake. The Host reapplies her makeup and realizes she did not exfoliate properly but does not risk proper exfoliation at this point in case guests begin to arrive. The first guest to show up is a Social Neutral The Host has always found boring and somewhat depressing due to his claylike complexion and his frequent complaints about his dead-end job and inability to do anything about his position and place in the world, who was invited for the reason he has a full-time job in an office-type setting. He has brought beer. He sits on the couch with his six-pack, opens a bottle, and begins to drink, making no conversation. “Let me put those in the refrigerator for you,” The Host offers. “I want to keep them with me,” the guest says. The Host informs the guest she needs to check the oven. As The Host puts her head in the oven, other guests begin to arrive. No one apologizes for being late and The Host, in an effort to be appropriate, stoic, and give the impression that she hasn’t invested too much in the success of the party, does not mention the three hour tardiness.

  That’s so great

  “I’m pregnant,” says a guest. “So am I,” says another. “Both of you are? So are we!”

  “It was a total shock.” “We weren’t even really trying.” “We tried for three years.” “We’re due on the solstice.” “We’re due on the equinox.” “Either Federico, Alejandro, Joaquin, Pablo—after Picasso—Paolo, Swordsman, Phallus Maximus, Everest, or Omnipotence, if it’s a boy.” “Pre-natal yoga and grass-fed steak.” “My doctor said I was the tiniest pregnant woman she’d ever seen.” “Walking every day.” “A big glass of water in the morning.” “The weird thing is I’m not even hungry, just blissed out.” “Lucia Frida, Remedios, Compote Rose, Come Hither, Whirling Dervish, Cosmos, Alma, Lil Cutie, Sexually Desirable, or Simone Weil, if it’s a girl.”

  “Wow you guys!” The Host says too loudly. “That’s so great! Congratulations to all four of you! It’s so great! There’s something in the oven! I’ll be right back!” The Host runs to the oven, which has been on with nothing inside it for hours and is creating hell-like heat conditions in the kitchen. The Host had not thought to get sparkling apple juice or other adult-appropriate non-alcoholic beverages for women with child. All of the French cheeses are unpasteurized, then there’s the matter of the raw oyster bar, which was the second main spectacular food item, and also the raw egg, the mercury, the shaved mad-cow boar hoof, the tuna, the tonsil stone, and the lorazapam in the 10,101-ingredient mole.

  Confidences

  “I’m not sure how I should act,” The Host confides to a guest’s child as they wait for the bathroom. The Host had not anticipated children and has no appropriate activities or distractions for the child, but has hopes the child, a boy, may be able to get her a job in fifteen to twenty years.

  “Me either,” the guest’s child tells her.

  “But especially now,” The Host says.

  Stagnation/social hiccups/injury

  At the oven window The Host hides from her guests, sweating profusely and possibly suffering from heat stroke. The Host stares into the oven window, watching a mixed metal pot begin to melt.

  “Someone spilled wine on the couch,” a guest, entering the off-limits kitchen, informs The Host.

  “Oh! No worries! It’s an old couch! I was going to burn that couch anyway! There is something cooking in here, really! Do you have enough to eat? I’ll clean the couch up in a minute! Club soda? Or just leave it! I’m putting that couch on the street in the morning—out with the old!” The Host, worried the guest has seen that there is no food in the oven, rushes out of the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine to refill empty glasses. As The Host runs into the living room with the bottle, she stumbles, landing heavily on both knees. Upon getting up, she notices that her knees are bleeding through her long white dress. “I shouldn’t have worn a dress today,” she says to the room full of guests. The guests continue their conversations.

  The Host’s status

  Somewhat spastic.

  Let’s dance!

  Blood and red wine stains have dried on The Host’s white dress. The Host puts on a new record, Dance Songs of Times Forgotten. “Let’s dance!” The Host semi-bounces and demi-twirls around the room. The guest who had been first to arrive dances with his nearly finished six-pack. The pregnant women make like their babies are dancing inside their wombs; only the pregnant women find it humorous. The Host doesn’t remember how to dance. She swings her ass from side to side, then gyrates and waggles from the dining room to the living room. Guests talk to one another and nod their heads to the music, tap feet, bounce knees. No one thinks of times forgotten. The Host feels desperate as tears well in her eyes. She pretends she is not crying. “Allergies,
” she smiles. “Napkins?” she offers. “Hey there,” she flirts, winking at a non-partnered person. Sexually frustrated she winks at a few partnered people as well. “Probably full funding, just waiting to hear back …” The Host lies, dancing from person to person, heavy in her arm movements, “I may not be in New York much longer, the artists are being pushed out … grants for women studying the nature of boredom … going back there for an ayahuasca trip, but last time I saw nothing … building houses in Honduras … surrogate for a famous celebrity couple … masturbation and other forms of self-pleasure—pizza- and ice cream-eating—as the only motivating factors for continued survival …” The Host pretends she is not crying.