Number Four

It was late. Close to midnight. I turned off my headlights and pulled into a patch of grass in his neighbor's yard. When I turned off the engine, my body was vibrating from anxiety. I had to pee. I turned around to check on my sleeping five-year-old son wrapped in a blanket in the backseat. What the hell was I doing?

I locked my car and walked the short distance to the end of his drive. If what he said was true, there would be no lights on in the house. He had cancelled our date because he wasn't feeling well and was "hitting the sack early," he said. That had been four hours ago, but my intuition told me something was wrong.

I met Love Number Four a year after my divorce from Jason's dad. My Beetle Bug was ailing, and I was told that he was the best Volkswagen doctor in Greenwood. Handsome, rough around the edges, self-assured, a man's man and not the least bit interested in me. Bingo. We have a winner, folks.

After several more visits to the car doctor's office, Number Four took notice and asked if I'd like to go for a ride in his airplane sometime. Youbetcha. One date led to another and before long we were exclusive.

EXCLUSIVE

Excluding or not admitting other things.

                                                  --Goggle Search

The house was dark. No lights on anywhere. What an idiot I was for doubting him. I had caught him in lies before, but he apologized and said he would never do it again, and here I was at midnight standing in his driveway in my pajamas questioning his loyalty and honesty and feeling so stup...

WAIT A MINUTE! IS THAT A LIGHT IN THE KITCHEN?

Number Four was a mystery. Unfortunately for me, I was attracted to men who kept me guessing. Was I that special one, or not? Four's declaration of love was affirming, but his actions were disturbing. Gone for days at a time with no explanation, last minute cancellations, taking the phone off the hook whenever I was at his house, and the plethora of women he referred to as "just friends." 

It was the kitchen light. Maybe he'd gotten up from his sick bed for a glass of water, thus the need for the light, and here I was questioning his integrity. I felt bad about that, but I was already there, so why not just take a peek for reassurance sake. Once I saw this poor sick man all by himself, I could beat down the doubt demons, calm my anxiety, drive home, and get a good night's sleep.

With every step up the drive, my anxiety grew more unbearable. Boy, did I ever have to pee. The window with the light was getting closer. How long does it take to drink a glass of water and go back to bed? Closer, closer. Ten feet away, eight, six, four...

I see him. Oh, the poor guy. He had to sit down at the kitchen table to rest before making it back to his bedroom. But wait! He's not in his jammies. He all dressed up. And he's animated, smiling, and talking. 

She was very young. Much younger than me. Pretty, too. Much prettier than... . I know what you're thinking. You thought I was going to say "prettier than me" didn't you? Am I right? I thought so. She was much prettier than the last young lady I had caught him with, but then again she was "just a friend," he said.

I walked back to the car, opened both doors on the passenger's side and peed on the neighbor's lawn. I drove home, put Jason back in bed, and then called his number. It rang busy. I called every fifteen minutes until he answered at three something in the morning. He was feeling a little bit better, he said, but he was going to have to cancel our date for the next night because of his contagious state.

I know what you're thinking. What if the neighbor had seen me peeing in his yard? Am I right? I thought so.

Magpies and Tapioca

I sat on the couch drinking cherry Kool-Aid and eating a ham salad sandwich. Tommy was sitting on the floor in front of me and we were watching cartoons. "Don't spill that Kool-Aid on the carpet, Carol Louise. It won't come out!" I squeezed the glass tighter between my knees and said in a voice that was drowned out by the hysteria playing out on the television, "I won't. I'll be careful." 

The birds looked identical: black magpies with gray bellies, almond-shaped beaks with big toothy smiles, and happy eyes that belied their mischievous intent. The only way to tell them apart was by their accents: one British and the other, Brooklyn, but they were equally cynical, rude, and antagonistic. Their unsuspecting victims, who were portrayed as dimwits and dopes, were simply naive, innocent, and unaware of the suffering about to befall them. Watching the birds be disrespectful and mean to others made me uncomfortable, so I asked Tommy if we could watch a different cartoon: Bugs Bunny, Donald Duck or Mickey Mouse "No!" he said, turning around and pinching the fatty part of my thigh and twisting it until I cried out in pain. He was the supreme ruler of the TV, and besides, he liked the violence the birds brought into our lives everyday from three to six o'clock.

"Don't spill that Kool-Aid on the carpet, Carol Louise. It won't come out!"

"I won't. I'll be careful." I pressed my knees tighter into the glass between my legs.

She came out of the kitchen with two bowls of Tapioca. "Oh, I don't like that cartoon. Those birds are so mean," she said, as she sat our dessert down on the coffee table between Tommy and me. Our babysitter stared at the television for several seconds--just long enough to see the birds cause great pain and suffering to a barnyard dog--before leaving the room in disgust. "They shouldn't be allowed to make cartoons with violence," she screamed from the kitchen, followed by, "Don't spill that Kool-Aid on the carpet, Carol Louise. It won't come out!" 

"I won't. I'll be careful." 

Behind her back, the neighborhood kids called her "the-cranky-old-maid-in-the-ugly-red-house." At first, I was happy she said no to my mother's request to watch me for three hours after school. She wasn't particularly fond of children she said, but then when another working mother in our neighborhood asked if she could watch her nine-year-old son, Tommy, the thought of making money, while two kids sat in front of a TV for three hours, wasn't so bad after all.

While the magpies were taking turns hitting a blubbering dog over the head with a mallet, Tommy stood up, and with no warning, whacked me on the head with the spoon from his Tapioca bowl. This malicious and unprovoked attack would start a chain reaction of unfortunate events that produced a big red stain on the carpet...

"Oh, no! Tell me you didn't spill Kool-Aid on the carpet, Carol Louise!"

...and would end with an unsuspecting, innocent, blubbering victim naively unaware of the pain and suffering about to befall her.