Why any parent would trust a sixteen-year-old version of myself with their offspring is kind of baffling to a now twenty-three year old me. At present some might describe me as exhibiting the following endearing traits: neurotic, obsessive, a bit impulsive and at times impractical. Imagine how a how lot of adolescent angst, raging hormones, and unsightly acne might intensify the manifestation of these characteristics. Combine this with my aversion to all things furry, whiny, un-housebroken/potty-trained and you come up with the worst caregiver ever-other than Michael Jackson (may his pedophile soul rest in peace).
Yet for some mysterious reason, the suburban yuppies of Northern New Jersey not only entrusted me with their newborns and beloved children, they paid me twelve dollars an hour to watch their mini-devils. The summer before my junior year of high school was a long one. I was license-less and counting down the days until my seventeenth birthday which coincided with the start of senior year. By day I was a lifeguard at the local NORC (Naturally Occurring Retirement Community), protecting the lives of the Elderly Women's Water Aerobics group and working on my tan. By night I was Mephanie, babysitter extraordinaire, keeper of children, fairy tales and all things sacred.
My date book was filled with exciting engagements with the Davis' and Millers and Browns. Every night it was a new thrilling experience, would I be watching Hook or All Dogs go to Heaven? Would I be changing diapers or playing with Lego's? The sky was really the limit. I was playing the field and I loving it. Among all the randoms and one night stands there were of course the regulars, my old stand by, the Mosenbergs.
The Mosenbergs were a nice Jewish family I met at synagogue earlier that spring (temple, was not a place I frequented but my mom dragged me from time to time and occasionally there was a pretty nice lunch spread). We clicked instantly; they had two young sons and satellite TV, I had nothing to do that Friday night and some debt (that ten speed Schwinn was a bad investment).
At 7:00 p.m. the next Friday night my sister dropped me off at the Mosenberg's house in the South End of town (without a license I was forced to beg Memma for rides, she got a 5% cut of the night's take). The South End was an enclave of estates and over sized mansions on the edge of the poorest section of town. What better to flaunt in the face of disenfranchised impoverished minorities than the wealth of the elite, that's what I always say. The Mosenberg's house was on the smaller side of palatial. They had recently purchased it and were doing renovations (which meant lots of those plastic sheets which look a lot like ghosts in the dark). It was under-furnished and poorly decorated.
Mrs. Mosenberg greeted me at the front door, ushering me into the cavernous entryway. At this point I should mention that I was carrying a bag-an army green over the shoulder satchel of sorts. It was from The Gap. In this bag was a book, a magazine, my wallet and my pride and joy, my brand new cell phone. As it was summer I didn't have a coat, it was just me and the bag. This bag was a point of anxiety for me. Despite having babysat many, many times before-for some reason at this moment with this babysitting job the presence of a bag, a purse really, made me nervous. What if the Mosenbergs thought I was trying to smuggle drugs into their house? Might they assume this bag was the agent of some terrorist plot? Would they know I had a cell phone in the bag and that I intended to call friends on it or play Snake (that's right it was a Nokia) after the boys went to sleep? I talked all these scenarios out with Memma and her friend Manne sitting around our kitchen table earlier that afternoon.
"Should I tell them what's in the bag when I get there?" I asked earnestly.
"No." Memma munched on a wheat thin.
"But what if they think I'm bringing alcohol or something?" I said, my anxiety getting worse every minute.
"They won't." Memma rolled her eyes.
"Maybe I should just be like 'This is my bag, it just has my book in it in case I want to read later.' You know, just give them a heads up that I might read or something." I thought this was the smartest course of action, let them know so they wouldn't assume the worst. Memma, it appeared did not agree, she laughed at me.
"Mephanie, it's a goddamn bag, they won't care what's in it." Manne piped in.
"Okay but what should I do with it when I get there?" The thought of bag placement within their house drove me to a new level of near hysteria. "Should I put it by the door as soon as I walk in? Should I carry it with me as they show me around? Maybe I should ask where I can put my bag."
"Why don't you hide it behind the house before you ring the doorbell and you can retrieve it after the parents leave." Manne offered. She and Memma broke into a fit of wheat thin spewing giggles. I laughed nervously but secretly began to hope there would be sufficient shrubbery surrounding the house for bag stowing.
I forced Memma and Manne to engage in multiple role plays where I played me and they played the Mosenbergs. We acted out different scenarios in which they questioned the bag, asked to inspect the contents of the bag, pondered whether there were weapons in the bag and finally told me to go home and come back sans bag. I think they may have been toying with me slightly. In the end we decided I would just put the bag down on or near the foyer area. Thinking back, I'm not quite sure what I did with that bag once I got to the house. However, I do remember quite vividly the intense feeling of panic nestled in my stomach that afternoon as I contemplated the presence of my army green Gap carrier bag.
No comments:
Post a Comment