“Tell me a story”
A phrase that I heard on more than a daily basis, but the first time I had heard it come from my niece’s mouth. The first words she had said to me beyond the initial, shy hello. Five years ago my sister consummated her marriage to a guy I have barely met with an event that I would rather not ponder about. This aforementioned unmentionable event would lead to a niece I had never met until today. With the way information traveled these days, via video messages and megapixel photos I feel like I’ve been there since her first step. In reality I’ve been 3000 miles away.
“Mommy says that you’re a story teller”
True, by definition I did tell stories. At least I liked to think that my assortments of words on pages could be taken as stories. In reality I told stiffs in suits words like ‘high concept’ and ‘franchise’ so I could then turn out a hackneyed retelling of one of 100 stories. All so I could line my pockets with more unnecessary paper. You want talking monkeys who sell real estate? Got it. A love story between *gasp* two women, with a twist that one is really *OMG* a man? Sure, I can do that. Some say that what I’m doing is called living the dream. I call it purgatory with a six figure salary. I eagerly await the day when I can actually tell my own stories, so why not practice with a willing and eager audience.
“Okay,” I said, pushing the flimsy plastic straw through the tiny foil hole, as though I was drilling for apple juice, “But don’t you want to, uh, play or something?”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell a story to this little human who happened to share a fraction of my genetics, it’s just that at the moment my mind grapes had been thoroughly squeezed. My brain was filled with stats for a Playboy article regarding the swingers scene in L.A. Meanwhile I was redrafting some sort of shit motorcycle street racing p.o.s. for Paramount. Apparently the kids were all about racing their motorbikes these days, who knew? Not exactly material appropriate for a five uear old. Plus I was perfectly content at ogling the myriad of MILFs who littered the area. Sufficient payment for an afternoon of babysitting while the parental units did the typical sightseeing.
“Play? You mean like swing and stuff? That’s for kids.” Five years old and she was already too old for something.
“Sure, swing, slide, you tell me. You know it’s been a while since I’ve been five,” I said, sliding the juice box across the table like some sort of kiddy bartender, “You’re never too old to have fun ya’know.”
Her soft blue eyes flitted across the playground with a general look of disinterest. How dare this little scamp stick her nose up at this place, it was like the Fischer Price version of Vegas. Hell, if it wasn’t likely to get me tossed onto some sex offender list or more likely into the hospital I’d be swinging across monkey bars and barreling through those plastic tunnels like a mad man. But to each their own.
“Alright then, a story it is,” I said with a theatrical clearing of my throat, “Any requests?”
There were none, so I began to spout off a rather tired concept about a little girl having to go on an adventure. A rare fairy tale about a lass of peasantly status rescuing a trapped prince. A perfect package with equal parts magic and prince and heroine hand-holding. Little girls still liked this crap right? I could tell by the way her young face began to crinkle like an old hag that my assumptions were grossly incorrect. There was an almost immediate interjection.
“Is this story about a girl just because I’M a girl?”
Yikes. This pleasant afternoon in the park was quickly turning into the pitch meeting from hell. That familiar feeling of stomach unbalance that usually led to quick-toed thinking began to creep up my spine.
“Well-” I tried to explain myself
“I’m five and three quarters you know, I’m not a baby. So don’t treat me like one.”
Sweet zombie Jesus! This young one had some sass, certainly a trait bestowed upon her by my sister and one I had nearly 20 years of experience dealing with. Perhaps this wasn’t my niece at all, and simply a plant from one of the studios, trying to pick my brain for free… bastards. Or maybe I was on some sort of reality, hidden camera, Running Man type program. No, I’m not that lucky to be treated with instant, undeserved celebrity. Like usual, my mind had drifted off course like an untethered dingy. Back to the firing squad.
“I figured I’d test you, see what you were made of.” I laid out the mental challenge, knowing that few cocky youngsters could resist its bait, “Obviously you’re a bit sharper than I though. Bet your Mommy and Daddy are proud of that.”
“Sure,” she said looking at the ground. Her attention momentarily diverted by a few skittering ants, “But why is the main character a girl?”
The same afternoon sun that was turning her East Coast eyes into slits was now burning on my back. This, amongst a long list of other reasons, was why I chose not to procreate. The Questions.
“Since you’re obviously above the whole princess saves the day type thing, I’ll give you something a bit more adult”
I could almost hear her perk up at the words. Nothing glowed more brightly for a youngster then the promise of seeing or hearing something ‘more adult’. But now I had worked my way into the ropes against a kid. Sure I had an infinite amount of stories that were adult, but nothing nearly appropriate for my Mom, let alone my five year old niece. As a failsafe I’d have to preface this with a phrase commonly uttered by uncles at family parties and fathers on fishing trips.
“Yeah, just don’t tell your mother about this. ”
1 comment:
dude, purgatory with a six figure salary...nice
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