Why did I agree to babysit this little moron? Goddamit, actually I know precisely the reason why I was stuck with the thankless chore of watching this kid. It happened at the supermarket earlier today, his mom, my mom’s best friend, confronted me and was so relieved that she had run into me. Apparently she had been planning a night out for several weeks and her babysitter had just cancelled on her. And I couldn’t think of a fucking excuse quick enough. It’s not fair, when I’m at the grocery store I’m in shopping mode; I’m looking for the three S’s of the marketplace: samples, sales, and sluts. Yes, if you didn’t know already the grocery store is a fabulous place to pick up sluts if you don’t mind a little cottage cheese in your honey pot or eating pudding cups from the bottom shelf, if you catch my drift.
But I digress, when I’m shopping for food I’m not in excuse mode. I’m in my prime excuse-making mode when I’m writing email or on the phone. Face to face isn’t good; you always think the person can tell your lying. In an email or text people can’t tell that I’m lying about my friend coming into town, or that I’m lying and that my support group for my unhealthy fascination with body hair meets Tuesday, not Friday. And over an email no one can ever tell that I don’t actually have a recently raped, eighty-eight-year-old grandfather that I have to go to therapy with. Each one of those lies, airtight! Fuck you, Mrs. Morris for catching me at my most vulnerable. You know I had plans tonight? Plans to stay home and binge drink in the dark until I fell asleep. Fucking bitch.
I get to the Morris’ place and yeah, it’s a nice house. Landscaping, abstract architecture, a slave quarters (which actually turned out to be a garage), you know, real signs of sophistication and class. However the downside of this is that I’m afraid if I sneeze, or fart, or masturbate all over something, she’ll probably send me a bill in the mail. And I’m not going to be able to afford that. Less than five minutes after I arrive, she’s out the door and off to her girls’ night, which I assume is the divorcees’ code for getting pounded in a hotel room for three hours by a twenty-three-year-old day laborer she met at Home Depot one Saturday.
Anyhow, in the haste she left in I can clearly see she doesn’t want to be around that little brat she calls her Little Jason anymore than she needs to be. And I can completely see why. The kid is an archetype of an only child and thus, he’s crazy obnoxious. When his mom isn’t working she just driving him places. When he doesn’t get his way he whines until he does. The little punk plays his divorced parents off of each other, assuring them that his love can be bought. It’s okay though, I’ll have the last laugh as I’m sure his mom and dad will pay for him to go away to some expensive college and give him an allowance, so he can “focus on his studies”. He will then proceed to blow the entire the entire allowance on drugs every week. Eventually he’ll land in rehab, then relapse and starts a rim-job giving service so he can “get his fix of chemical farts” (his future words). You know, that old story.
Apparently Little Jason didn’t make his bed, take out the garbage, smarted of to his horse riding instructor, or some bullshit. Now he’s not allowed to watch TV or play video games for the weekend. To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t get out of this punishment with crying or whining like I’ve seen him do before.
Seriously though, Mrs. Morris, are you sure you’re trying to punish him and not me here? Yeah, I’m sure whomever was going to watch Little Jason was just planning on just sitting her, uncomfortably sober, and waste away the hours watching Jason play video games until you came home. Now usually, I would just disregard what the parent said, let the kid play video games all night, and then claim I didn’t hear them right if the parent questioned me about it later. But Mrs. Morris, and I know it’s because her son is a sassy little asshole, actually hid the Xbox and the cable box. Am I a little pissed? You’re goddamn right I am. I’m twenty-two years old and not used to being punished by someone’ else’s parents
Okay, so it’s still light outside, so Jason decides to go swimming in their giant pool. He jumps in and I sit by the side of the pool. Great, he’ll get tired and then hopefully go to bed early. Five minutes in to his little swim he starts freaking out in the deep end and screaming that he can’t swim. He goes under the surface. My first instinct is to run. Just run, they’ll find the body and hopefully I’ll have crossed the Canadian border by then. Canada isn’t so bad; they like hockey and the people seem simple and compassionate enough that they could be easily hustled out of their life savings. I’d imagine could probably get a job anywhere I wanted too, I mean a degree from an U.S. college is worth like 2.7 Canadian, unless the exchange rate has changed since I last checked. Come to think of it though, I don’t want to do that. I don’t like the cold and all their television stations only show re-runs of Mr. Bean.
So I toss my shoes off and start climbing down the pool ladder. I’m up to the fucking knees of my jeans in water and the little asshole pops out of the water and taunts, “Ha ha, gotcha! Seriously, Justin, you should have known that I’m a great swimmer, I take lessons all the time!” I want to respond with, “Oh yeah, I really give a shit about your life story. Now I get to enjoy these wet jeans the rest of the night, you cocksucker. You pull something like that again and I’ll empty this whole pool just so I can fill it back up with your tears. You hear me?” But I don’t, because that’s a threat against a child and my probation officer frowns on that sort of thing.
Eventually, he gets out of the pool and we go inside. He complains about being hungry and that he wants McNuggets for dinner. Do they really have McNuggets here? Does this horrible evening actually have a silver lining? No, it does not have a silver lining and you’re an idiot for thinking that, Justin. A look in the fridge shows that Mrs. Morris is super health conscious and has nothing except tofu, weird curds, and vegetables. Little Jason starts whining as if this lack of McNuggets was a surprise to him even though he lives here. Fuck you, Jason, stop whining. I’d punch you in the face right now if I thought I could get away with it. Now he is demanding that we go out to get McNuggets. I’m okay with it if he has money for them. Nope. Well, that makes two of us. How tragic that a twenty-two-year-old has the same amount of money as a nine-year old.
With no TV he spends most of the night saying, “I’m bored. This is boring. You’re boring me, Justin. Justin, do you hear how bored I am?” To which I respond with a deep sigh as my mind wanders with thoughts of how easily this whole ordeal could have been avoided.
Finally, he’s tired enough (or uninterested enough, I don’t care) to go to bed. I consider smothering him with the pillow, but I suppose I’ll leave that for his mother after one of her wine benders. Plus that seems a bit rash for one evening, even for me. I’ll just go break something expensive in the house and blame it on him. Ugh, what a horrible evening that could have been avoided if I had just thought of an excuse on the spot.
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