The Babysitter at Rest Page 3

  Additional confidences

  The Host and the guest’s child find themselves in line for the bathroom once again. The Host’s eyes are red, irritated from tears and kitchen smoke. “I’ve recently lost the love of my life,” The Host tells the guest’s child. “I’m heartbroken.” The guest’s child knocks impatiently on the bathroom door, shifting around on both feet. “They had long flowing hair down to their ankles and skin that glowed,” The Host says. “Sounds pretty,” the guest’s child says. “They’re all I can think about,” The Host tells the child. The guest’s child passes gas. “I think they may have been an alcoholic, but we all have our flaws,” The Host says. “I’ll never see them again.” The guest’s child cannot stop passing gas.

  Spontaneous Activity: Single Card Tarot Readings

  “This particular tarot set was made by a trust-funder—daughter of a famous collage artist, friend of a friend of a friend who went to an elite art college and currently resides in Los Angeles, buying rare and expensive musical instruments and taking singing lessons while looking to hire a producer to record her solo album. Also, she has a private drawing-with-colored-pencils-and-oil-crayons instructor and owns a small printing press, hence the manifestation of the deck. So there is dumb luck, which is the best kind of luck if you ask me, and arbitrary fortune associated with these cards. Very auspicious,” The Host informs her guests. The Host lights candles and sage then shuffles the deck. The pregnant women, the guest’s child, and a few employed people sit around the table.

  Reading 1: Pregnant Guest

  Card: Three of Swords

  Imagery: A woman hiding inside a bathroom stall with three swords—one in her left eye, one in her mouth, and one up her vagina—watching her lover/husband with a packed suitcase put his hand up another woman’s skirt.

  Interpretation: “This one is completely different than it appears,” The Host lies. “It means you will enjoy endlessly rewarding domestic bliss, full of the foods you love to eat without any of the guilt.”

  “Yum!” the pregnant woman says.

  Reading 2: Employed Female Guest

  Card: The Devil

  Imagery: A three-storied house engulfed in flames with a cross section cut out. Inside the house: a jackal ravages the domestic dwelling, a woman is being penetrated by a horse, a man performs cunnilingus on a polar bear, someone has drowned themselves in the tub.

  Interpretation: “Good for you! A major arcana card, meaning this card represents your current location on life’s path. This card looks heavy, but the Devil is a playful joker-type,” The Host says, again lying. “It portends not imminent suicide or a penchant for bestiality or complete Devil nature, but a good time. Life is full of good old times.”

  Reading 3: The Guest’s Child

  Card: The Hanged Man

  Imagery: A man hanged, bound, gagged, and castrated inside a Christmas ornament-like globe that represents the world. Ships pass on the seas around him. Cities are filled with people. Great monuments are built. Beautiful trees, fruits, flowers, and crops fill the land, but the man is suspended, upside down, above it.

  Interpretation: “The. World. Is. Yours. For. The. Taking,” The Host says through gritted teeth. She has lost all hope of the child securing her a job in the future.

  The dinner bell

  The Host rings the dinner bell. The 10,101-ingredient mole is served atop slow-roasted pig knuckles. Plates are decorated with squash blossoms, turmeric crème, fried lavender, spirulina salsa, and candied orchids of an unknown species. On a 27’ x 5’ table stand ten candelabras, containing one hundred and fifty tapered beeswax candles in total, beautifully lighting the dining room. Guests take their plates and eat scattered about the house—standing up, sitting cross-legged on the rug—ignoring the place settings. One of the opulent floral arrangements crashes to the floor. A recently purchased Alice Neel knockoff (an amateur nude in acrylic The Host hoped resembled herself) falls from the wall. “Was that an earthquake?” The Host asks, her voice too loud and somewhat shaky. Someone puts the Long Ago Hawaiian Vacation Slideshow Music record on. No one compliments the mole.

  So fun

  Maybe it was. Something it could’ve been.

  A word from The Host

  “A toast. Thank you all for …” The Host drinks champagne. “It has meant so …” The Host coughs. “Mi casa es …” The Host feels her stomach rumble. “Great night for a …” The Host is afraid she will not be able to sleep tonight. “I imagine you’re all …” The Host imagines everyone naked; they are all more attractive than she would have guessed, and somehow kinder. The Host would like to sleep with all of her guests. “You all mean so …” The Host feels close to everyone for a moment. “Remember when that painting fell and I thought it was an earthquake?” The Host relives the immediate past. “More champagne?” The Host does not know what tomorrow will look like. “Cheers.” The Host drinks. And drinks.

  The cake

  It is no one’s birthday, but The Host puts candles on the cake because she must make an effort and the cake is, at least, something. Anyway, she thinks that’s what The Guide was getting at by their visit. Several guests say they do not eat sweets or wheat or things shaped like roses or things molded into skulls, but some eat the cake and frosting roses and calaveras de azúcar. The guests say they must go to the gym tomorrow. “I’m starting a cleanse,” The Host says, “and Martha Graham zumba. And taking an ikebana class, which tones your arms and relaxes your mind.” The kitchen is now too hot to enter. There is nowhere for The Host to retreat. Possibly the bathroom, but one cannot really do that at a party. People might think her bulimic. Or worse.

  Harmony/mind melding/dissolution

  We love you articles. We love you Balthus. We love you Smokey. We love you Roy. We love you getting older. We love you up-and-coming hip-hop artists. We love you the KLF’s “Justified and Ancient (Stand By The JAMs).” We love you Disneyland mermaids of Submarine Voyage 1967. We love you learning to speak Spanish. We love you Paul McCarthy. We love you Leonora Carrington. We love you Alice Neel. We love that you were a whore and a bad mother. We love you that time we went to Istanbul. We love you the culture of Japan. We love you that time we almost died. We love you the night. We love you alcohol. We love that you’re trying to do that. We love that you actually think you can do that. We love you future plans. We love you summer. We love you opera. Let’s go to the opera in the winter. Let’s go to the beach in the summer. Let’s go camping in the fall. Let’s have a threesome in the spring. Let’s buy a vacation house all together. Let’s move to the New Mexican desert all together. I’ve always loved you. I’ve always been so fond of you. I always get excited when I see you. You have always been my favorite. Let’s remember each other’s birthdays this year. Let’s get a drink sometime. Let’s say hello to one another if we see one another on the subway. We are busy. We are too. We are too busy. We have no time. Time flies. It’s already been a year. It’s already been ten years. How long have we been here? Where is the bathroom? Is there any more tequila? How much is your rent? We’re thinking how to get Mexican citizenship. We’re thinking of moving to Red Hook if we win the lottery. We’re thinking of moving to Sunset Park. We’re thinking of moving to The Hole in East New York. We’re thinking of moving to Queens. We’re thinking of moving to Poughkeepsie. We’re thinking of moving closer to our families, with the babies coming. We’re thinking we shouldn’t drink too much. We’re thinking we’ve had too much to drink. We’re thinking of throwing up in the toilet. We’re thinking of breaking off from the group. We’re thinking we shouldn’t have come. We’re thinking of going home. We’re thinking of going to bed. We were thinking the same thing. We wish you luck. We wish you the best in all your future plans. We will not remember your names. We will say we don’t remember your faces—though we do—because it is easier. The time. The train. The morning. The next day. The workweek. Separation always occurs in the end, but in-between also.

  The guest’s child

 
; The guest’s child has fallen asleep holding a king protea in his hand. The Host did not consider party favors. The guests are very drunk. Some speak feverishly. Others speak languidly. The Host has never known these strangers.

  THE BABYSITTER AT REST

  I’ve been given a fresh start, a new beginning. It’s almost like being reborn, but without birth and childhood. I get to start as a young adult, when you are capable of looking after yourself and making decisions. When your body is in its prime. The only rules are you start pretty broke, and you have to have roommates. There are six of us in the house. I share a room with two people, one named Susan and the other named Lorry. Allen has his own room and Diana and Horse share a room. What people do most is sit in the house and watch television. There are things we can learn, like I’m interested in painting and gardening and possibly fishing.

  My memory is mostly gone, though not entirely. What’s left is the impression of fullness; for example, the supermarket. Here it contains a limited number of items, but memory fills in the blanks—brands, flavors, packaging, etc. Memory has proven to be useful for livening things up in the town—filling leaves in the trees, reading expressions on other people’s faces, seeing trash on the streets. It’s good to have reminders like that—that life is more detailed than it appears here—though not too many.

  I meet Tyler Burnett at a party I’ve been invited to. People in the town have parties often. Tyler Burnett wears dark sunglasses always, even at night. I cannot see through his sunglasses. Some people say they might be painted black. I think he may have no eyes. Nevertheless there is a romantic energy between us. It’s still somewhat difficult for me to understand people when they speak, but I understand much more than I did in the first few days. Tyler Burnett says “Chemicals and fishing, the water. Yes, television. Art, no. A walk. To swim. Jokes and such are not my kind. Sexy and rubs are my sort of thing. With you, something distracting.” He is the most interesting person I’ve met.

  After the party I ask Allen, my roommate, about Tyler Burnett. Allen tells me he owns the chemical plant. Allen tells me that Tyler Burnett is married and that he has a baby. They live in the big cliff house at the beach. Tyler Burnett’s house is the last big house at the beach, a relic from when beach living was the symbolic height of wealth in town, before the rising ocean and strong waves destroyed most of the area, making the mountains prime real estate. The house had been his father’s, his father’s father’s and so on. Tyler Burnett’s father died amidst his mid-life crisis in a localized gas station earthquake while simultaneously being given head by his young girlfriend and filling up his tank. Tyler Burnett’s father then became a ghost, after which his relationship with his son disintegrated. I’ve seen Tyler Burnett’s house when I’ve gone down to the beach. The cliff erodes daily and the property depreciates in value yearly, though the grandiosity of the place is not diminished by its crumbling foundation. Allen says it shows that Tyler Burnett is the richest person in town that he doesn’t care if his whole estate falls into the ocean.

  Here you must work. Jobs have titles, but duties are vague. I’m interested in the arts, so have taken a job at the newspaper instead of government or business. As a young person you must choose one. I get rides to work in the morning with a woman who speaks about needing to make a hair appointment. At work it is almost like I do nothing. Some papers. Running errands. Computer stuff. I talk to someone named Jimmy who does something like research on the computer all day. He’s into the arts too; he plans on being a singer and performing to large audiences. Jimmy goes out to lunch with a young businessperson named Cass who works at City Hall. I eat no lunch at work. I eat very little in general.

  Communication is getting easier. At first, when I could understand nothing, people were either happy with me or offended by me often and I did not know why. Now speaking with other people is not the stress it was just a few short weeks ago. What I’ve learned is you don’t ask questions and then things begin to make sense.

  Hobbies are essential; without them, people get bored and turn to loitering and vagrancy and vandalism. I go to the little farm near our home and plant tomato seeds. In the farm’s tool shed, I read books by local authors with titles like, If Your House Is Yellow and Other Problems of Interest, or How To Make Apple Salad For Parties, or Three Ways to Fix Broken Toilets, or Clean Your Room, Cook Your Food, Go to Work, and Do Hobbies: A Life.

  I take up painting in my spare time and paint little things—ideas of a sunset, a bird—that I sell for ten to fifteen dollars apiece to people who also work jobs and live in houses, possibly with families. Here quality does not matter. It’s a tremendous relief when attempting to make something. It was harder before, but here I can paint a blue sky and black V shape for a crow, and a tree in the distance, maybe an undetailed person walking on the street. Everything goes into a category depending on intention, so if I paint something and then paint something else, I’m gaining experience in the category of painting, despite the absence of any stylistic progress, artistic vision, or knowledge of what I’m doing. The only classification that matters is time spent doing the thing; here god is a clock with memory, logging hours.

  Time goes quickly and little is ever accomplished. It’s unclear if there is just nothing to accomplish, or if there are endless things. I go swimming often. I spend hours at the pool. I meet people, older women and kids, who like to play water games like splash-in-the-face, drown-a-bitch, and punchies-and-kickies. A man with silver hair sits on a chaise lounge and watches me several nights a week. I’m unsure if he comes here to watch me swim, or if he’s always come here and just watches me because I’m new.

  Horse is throwing a party. He’s invited people from his gym and from city hall. He’s invited the neighbors. Horse tells me I can invite whomever I want, but I don’t have anyone’s phone number. Everyone cleans the house and I make a salad for the party. I say, “I hope you all like apples,” to my roommates, since it’s an apple salad. They watch the television and don’t say anything about liking or not liking apples.

  People come in and out of our house for the party: children, grandparents, people whom I’ve seen in town, people I’ve never seen. People leave their dishes on the floor. Someone breaks the toilet. Jimmy from work comes and plays the guitar and sings in the front yard. The oven catches fire and the fire department is called. Everyone goes outside. A female firefighter comes in with a hose and puts out the fire. “Recklessness,” she says. The fire truck leaves and she stays behind, dancing with Horse to tinny music coming out of the boom box on the floor. A smell of burnt plastic comes from the house. Outside, the man with the silver hair I’ve seen down at the pool hides in our hydrangea bush. The bush shakes. A stream of urine trickles down the ground from the bush. It smells strongly of asparagus. “It’s you,” the voice from inside the bush says. Jimmy plays a song that everyone seems to know the words to. It’s up-tempo. Some girls have love in their eyes as they watch Jimmy. A loud sigh comes from the hydrangea bush. “Relief,” the man inside the bush says. I look inside the house through the partially blackened kitchen window to see Lorry either playing a mirror game or fighting with a child; they both stomp and fold their arms and stick their tongues out. Diana is going at the toilet with a plunger, but it is only making things worse. Susan lip-syncs to the boom box music. The female firefighter grinds on Horse’s hip. Horse has a giant erection that is visible through his track pants. The female firefighter licks her lips and waggles her tongue at Horse’s erection. “Oh,” the man inside the hydrangea bush says, very close to my ear, “all I want is to be with you.” The man’s words or voice remind me of something from before. Jimmy begins smashing his guitar. People clap and jump up and down and chant Jimmy’s name. Jimmy puts two middle fingers up and flails his arms around, flipping everyone off. The people cheer louder. The female firefighter comes out. “Stop!” she says. Horse is directly behind her with his erection sticking out of the flap in his track pants. Everyone goes back inside. No one seems to be bot
hered by the burnt plastic smell or the dark smoke that fills the house. They continue the party. Horse and the female firefighter go into the bathroom and screw loudly. The neighbor, Mrs. Olsen, is snorting ketamine off the kitchen table while her husband, Mr. Olsen, takes photos. Their daughter, Lizzie Olsen, is assembling a nail-shooting gun from a gun kit. Susan has taken out my paints and is doing portraits of the reveling party guests. She hands me a vulgar portrait she’s painted of me—done with my paints on my canvas—of my legs spread wide beneath a ceremonial robe to show a little pink heart covering my vagina. The heart is surrounded by pubic hair. Susan laughs. “It’s so you,” she says. I feel something like envy of Susan’s natural talent in so accurately representing the figure. I thought I’d left such feelings behind.