I post this trying to kick my own ass into gear. Write, goddamn it, ya bum. Before you get called boring again.
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It was all white, except for the hot pink padded shoulders. Hot pink or fuchsia – one of the two. My new outfit was a glorified sweat suit made of bright clean thick cotton - stylish enough to make me feel like something other than the poor kid, but inexpensive enough that I could buy it with my babysitting money. With tax, it cost just over twenty-seven dollars (which equaled an equal amount of hours watching my neighbor’s two young sons). I felt like I was one pair of hot pink socks away from resembling an MTV backup dancer. I was so proud of my new clothes that I changed in to them as soon as I’d walked home – even though my only plans for the evening were to head off to bed once the dishes were clean.
I was eleven. My mom had walked up to Venture with me that evening after my dad had gotten home – I was too young to walk that far by myself, but mom also didn’t want to bring my sisters to the store with us. So we’d had to wait until Dad saw fit to leave the office for the day. We’d only made it inside shortly before closing – my dad rarely got home before 8:00 PM and closing was an hour later. Our walk was at least 20 minutes – not a long walk, but I’d had to angrily beg my mom to keep her promise that we would go that evening. That took some time and a lot of effort, since I had to plead just enough to make her feel guilty but not too much or else she would get too angry and we’d not go. But eventually I won. In retaliation, she didn’t speak to me for the entire walk. I’d expected that. What was more important to me was getting my outfit before my parents took my money again.
After we got home, my irate father questioned my mom about what was so important to send her out after dark. I showed him my new outfit and let him know how happy I was so he wouldn’t be too upset – we girls tended to get more leeway when he was in a certain state of sobriety. If things made us obviously happy then sometimes he would back off. It seemed to work, but later I found out his mood had not fully subsided. As I started filling the sink with soapy water to clean the dinner dishes, dad overhead me telling mom we were low on dish soap. This lead to furious yelling from dad – why could we afford something trivial like clothes when we couldn’t afford soap to clean our plates? Mom ignored him, then quietly stomped up to bed – her footfalls heavy enough to give her some personal satisfaction, yet not loud enough to break through my father’s haze of beer.
I finished the dishes and then also slunk up to bed. I carefully removed my outfit and folded it so it would look just as clean and crisp in all its jersey goodness in the morning. Then I told my sisters to be quiet – dad was in a bad mood and we didn’t want him to come upstairs. My sister Stephanie’s face revealed how much this annoyed her – not only had I gotten new clothes, I’d also ruined everyone else’s night by angering dad. The four of us were now effectively not only trapped in our room but also consigned to silence. I had to concentrate very hard on how much I liked my new clothes or else the guilt, anger, and regret for my selfish actions would have lead to my crying myself to sleep. As the oldest, it was my job not to cry at either of our parents’ moods. I had to show the little ones that, as you got older, their behavior never seemed like a problem anymore. I also had to demonstrate that it was okay to acquire new things for yourself sometimes without having to believe that you had committed a sin.
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I know the writing hovers around "okay" at best. It's too damn whiny, for starters. I haven't found the best approach, yet. It is so difficult not to be self-satisfied.
Posted by acr at July 7, 2007 11:29 PM