Monkey Management

Preface:
Make ‘em proud!

The day I graduated from high school, my big brother, Chris, handed me a carefully wrapped rectangular brick. I peeled away the shiny wrapping paper, and read the title of my gift. What Color is Your Parachute: A Practical Manual for Job Hunters. I opened it to the first page when something caught my eye. An inspirational message was written on the inside front cover:

Dear Erin,
I hope this book helps you to figure out what most interests you. Remember, no matter what you do, you have a loving family behind you.
Love, Chris
P.S. Try not to fuck this up, too!

Monkey Management

I was 11 years old when I began my journey into the corporate world in the form of babysitting. My big break came when our 17-year-old neighbor, Matt Hennison, got a job at Subway. Matt was a boy who lived on our street that my older sister Katie pretended not to notice. When coincidentally Katie, too, got hired at the local sandwich shop, I saw my chance. I was ready to transition from needing a babysitter to being a babysiter.

With the majority of my sister’s free time being devoted to a much more important, sandwich making career, it was time for me to inherit the task of watching the children of the family that lived in the house behind us. They were the Thompsons, a happy little family of four, a mom and a dad and two blonde haired, blue-eyed angelic little girls. I almost couldn’t believe my luck…someone was actually going to pay me to play!

I was an idiot.

This was my first lesson on the foolishness of thinking you have a handle on a situation based on appearances alone….nothing is ever as it seems. Oh, and if it seems too good to be true that’s because it is, Stupid.

My naïve assumptions about these kids didn’t last long. I walked in blind, but my eyes adjusted after about 10 minutes into my first visit. Katie never bothered to tell me the details regarding Mr. & Mrs. Strange-son and their two freak daughters, but the family didn’t have any trouble telling me themselves…each and every time I saw them.

The younger of the two girls was 5-year-old Jane. Jane had a nickname (created by moi) that her parents thought was endearing, never bothering to ask me where it originated, how it had come to be…nothing, no questions asked, just a giggle and a nod when I’d walk in and greet their daughter, “Hey Sbd.”
(SBD stood for Silent but Deadly…Jane or “Janie” as her parents liked to call her…which by the way, drove me crazy!! (perhaps because their voice would always go up two octaves every time they said it that way…like the creepy older sister from that Stephen King movie, Pet Semetary. You know, the girl I’m talking about? It’s the one that has the twisted spine and lives in the back bedroom, the one that always calls for her younger sister, Rachel, with a really high-pitched witch-like voice? That’s what these two sounded like when they called for their kid… ”Jaaaannnieeee”… still makes me shake off shivers!)

Back to the reason for the nickname: Sbd was a beautiful little girl but she had some wicked gas. It was the kind of flatulence that grown men would be proud to call their own. I’m not being dramatic. I had an older brother. I knew what bad ass smelled like. The kid ate nothing but Spaghettios and Twinkies, and I guess I can take credit as being the first person to discover this combination emits a highly toxic gas. It would curl your nostril hairs. It would make you gag uncontrollably. It would make your eyes water….and the worst part was that it would creep up on you, and as you realized it was coming from Jane, she’d be standing there, grinning at you like she had just found a cure for Cancer. The stench would linger in the air, but no mention was ever made of the fart…by anyone. Without fail, as soon as the noxious fumes had been released Sbd would be on me. She would immediately want to be my shadow. I’m convinced she knew that she was trailing the foul odor and wanted to make sure I suffered… it was a tad unsettling..... a little odd....kind of irksome… ok, I’m going to be upfront and just tell you…the kid was a psychopath.

The other girl was seven. She had a jack o’ lantern smile and white blonde hair. Her name was Kelsey but I called her ‘KIT’. It stood for “Know it All”….the kid thought she was the resident expert on all topics brought up for discussion now, in the past, and if she wasn’t aware of future topics yet, she would be. No matter what I said, she was defending the opposite stance. I felt like the kid was grooming herself to be the captain of the Speech and Debate Team and I was her soundboard. It was exhausting just being around her.

My predecessor also failed to mention that my brother, Chris, liked to make regular prank phone calls during these gigs….information that would have saved me some heart-palpitating minutes!

The first time I babysat for Sbd (pronounced spud) and Kit, I was hopeful; one might even say joyful. It was a brisk fall day in late October. I was supposed to be at the Thompson’s house at 1:00. I put on my favorite aqua sweat suit and my new Reebok high tops at 12:30, and I started walking. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was going to be way too early. I abruptly altered course and wound around Bluebird Park, stopping at my favorite lopsided swing. Someone had wrapped the metal chain link handles around the top three times, making it much shorter than all of the other swings. I liked this because I was tall, and none of the other swings were as much fun. Pretty soon, I consulted my watch and was shocked to see that it was 12:58. I had been so proud of myself. One might even say cocky…gloating about how responsible I was, how ‘ahead-of-schedule’ I was… that I had let time slip away as I enjoyed my favorite playground toy. Shit.

I hopped off the swing and skinned my knee in the landing. I frowned at the black stain and small hole forming in the knee of my favorite pair of non-school pants and tried to ignore the pain throbbing in my knee. I took off running and got to the Thompson’s doorstep at 1:03, sweat glistening on my brow and upper lip and clothes looking slightly dirty and unkempt. I was about to ring the bell as Mrs. Thompson flew into view in an overwhelming array of red and purple chiffon.
“I just got off the phone with your mother.” She said this as she looked me up and down distastefully. “We were worried sick. She said you left over an hour ago.” (My mother was famous for exaggerating everything).

I mumbled something about falling on my way, but Mrs. Strange-son had not stuck around long enough to listen to my answer. She was already being distracted by Sbd and Kit. They were playing peek-a-boo behind her shoulder and giggling hysterically. She sighed heavily as she reached into a jewelry box on the counter and clipped on the most enormous earrings I had ever seen. She started barking out orders as she applied her brick red Revlon lipstick, studying her reflection in the mirror. I had no impulse control at that time, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out,
“Where on earth are you going?!”

Considering it was 1:00 in the afternoon on a Saturday in a quiet Indiana neighborhood, it was a valid question. She looked at me, (eyes bulging and narrowing, bulging and narrowing),for much, much longer than what I felt was necessary.

“Not that it’s any of your beeswax (Pronounced “beeeeeeZwax” she said it with a long drawn out ‘e’ and an emphasized ‘z’ in the middle), but I happen to be a lady who lunches.” I was confused. My mom ate lunch all the time, and I had never seen her in a getup that even compared to this lady’s frock. I started to tell her as much, when she suddenly popped up and announced that Mr. Thompson would be home around 6:00 pm.

The kids and I watched her back out of the driveway, Spud hanging on my back; legs squeezing my sides and her hands, all sticky from jelly, firmly around my neck. Kit stood holding my hand like she was my long lost daughter. (She gripped it so tightly that I lost feeling in my tall man finger for at least 30 seconds!)

As soon as the car was out of sight, the beasts came to life. Spud started pulling my hair and kicking me in my side, demanding that I play “horsey”. With each kick, gas would come bursting out of her, making me feel like I was stuck in the public bathroom down at the old 76 gas station on Sheffield Road. As I struggled with Spud, I realized that Kit was gone, and it had suddenly gotten very quiet. I took off at a sprint, yelling her name as I went. Spud, still on my back, was echoing me, doing an annoying imitation of my voice which was actually pretty good (which is probably why it was so annoying).

A loud crashing sound clattering from the basement resulted in Spud sliding off my back, nearly choking me in the process as she used my shirt as grappling hook of sorts. I took off after her, taking the stairs 2 at a time. By the time I got downstairs, the Thompson’s playroom looked like a refugee camp. The little gremlins had destroyed the place. Games, Barbies, tinker toys, doll clothes, wayward legos, books and puzzle pieces littered the floor. Kit sat in the middle of it all, looking pleased with herself as she used what appeared to be a pair of hedge clippers to cut her Cabbage Patch doll’s hair. Spud just stood off to one side, looking wide eyed and bewildered as she sucked her thumb and twirled her hair.

I sighed. It was going to be a long day. I convinced the girls to play a fun game with me called: “Let’s get organized!” (How I sold the concept of this game…I WISH I could remember! All I know is that it worked.) Once the toys had been put away, we could then reassess and see what it was we wanted to play. Unfortunately, by the time we finished the “getting organized” game, I was exhausted. It was then that I had a brilliant idea.

“Let’s play a new game.” I announced to the kids. They nodded their heads eagerly. “Ok. You have to wear this blindfold,” (I looked around, trying to find something to use as a blindfold…my eyes locked onto Mrs. Thompson’s old wool glove…) Of course, Kit had to balk at the idea of using a glove for a blindfold, but I got her to come around. I explained that we would take turns putting a movie into the vcr and the blindfolded person would have to try to guess what movie it was just by the sound of it. If they couldn’t get it just by the sound, they could peek (this was decided later when it was determined that the first version of the game was too difficult for Spud). I breathed a sigh of relief. This was a low energy game that kept the girls entertained for a surprisingly long amount of time.

I was almost drifting off to sleep on the couch when the shrill sound of the phone ringing reverberated through the room. I jumped up and ran over to an ancient looking black phone with a rotary dial. “Hello?” All I could hear was someone breathing. “Um…Hello?”

No response.

I waited about 10 more seconds before I hung up. I tried not to let it bother me as I went back to the couch where the girls had settled into watching Cinderella. Just as I had hoped, the movie game had morphed into just plain old movie. Just as Cinderella was giving Gus the mouse a new shirt and hat, the phone rang again. I picked up the receiver, deciding to try something new that I’d seen on Different Strokes. (Whenever they answered the phone, they always said, "Drummond Residence" which to me, sounded very fancy and grown up).

“Thompson Residence.”

A deep, echoing voice said, “Have you checked the children?” Instantly, I was afraid. Only one year prior I had seen one of the scariest movies I had ever seen up until that point: When a Stranger Calls. I had snuck downstairs during Katie’s slumber party and I’d seen the whole thing. This killer calls this girl and asks her if she has “checked the children.” When she does finally go upstairs to check on them, they’re DEAD! Pretty gruesome. Freaked me OUT. Now here I am, listening to the same scary line while I’M babysitting?! I assumed my ears were playing tricks on me so I calmly said, “Excuse me?” Click. No one is there. I hang up the receiver and pick it back up quickly. Still nothing. I try to relax, but I was pretty nervous. (I hadn’t yet realized at this point that scary movies weren’t actually real…)

It was nearly 5:00 pm when the phone rang again. I looked at it with dread, and timidly said, “Hello?” I heard Mr. Thompson on the other end of the line. He called to tell me that he is going to be late and that I need to give the girls Spaghettios for dinner. He tells me that he has already ok’d this with my mother which I am immediately annoyed about. I was hoping to use her as an excuse to get the hell out of there! I realized I was stuck so I hung up the phone and fed the girls their dinner. We were eating Oreos for dessert when I heard the phone again. “It's probably your dad...” I said as I jogged over to the phone and almost dropped it when I heard a breathy voice say,
“Have….you…..checked….the children???” I was terrified, and I was not sure what to do so I gripped the phone a little tighter, swallowed and waited. I heard breathing. Then... I heard something else…a dog. Wait a second, could it be? I pressed the receiver into my ear, straining to hear. It is. It’s the sound of my own dog, Elka, barking, something that might have been hard to place, but then I heard my father’s booming voice say, “Elka! Be Quiet! more barking then: "God dammit!” That was DEFINITELY my dad, and I knew.

Chris.

It was my older brother. I quickly decided I would use this discovery to my advantage. I pretended I still didn’t know who it was so I could use this opportunity to prove how brave I was. Trying to sound as genuine as possible, I yelled into the phone, “Leave us alone, you big rotten stupidhead!”

I let out a satisfied breath, beaming as I waited for his response.

I thought to myself, There. That will show him!

Suddenly I heard a deep rumbling laugh coming from the other end of the phone.

I was furious. “Chris! What is SO funny?” I demand. He doesn’t answer me. I lowered my voice and said, “I am telling mom when I get home, and you are going to be in big, big trouble!” All I heard in response was more laughter. I slammed the receiver down.

After I hung up the phone, I went back into the kitchen. On the table, the cookies and milk sat, abandoned. Shit. I ran into the living room, scanning for the girls. Empty. I ran down the hall., looking into each room I passed. I paused at Mr. & Mrs. Thompson’s bedroom door. I could hear splashing and giggling coming from inside. I threw the door open and ran into the master bathroom. There, looking like miniature incredible Hulks were Spud and Kit. They had decided to take a bath and thought it would be a good idea to add 10 whole bottles of green food coloring (I still wonder to this day why on earth anyone would have that much food coloring in their house). I gasped. Letting the green water out of the tub, I filled it back up with clean water and added some baking powder for good measure (my mom was always doing this when I took baths…I wasn’t sure why, but figured it could only help…besides, it felt kind of fun to scoop in the clean, white powder in an official doctor-y sort of way). I scrubbed both girls until their skin was a reddish green. After the tenth time, the girls were not about to let me at them with a washcloth again, and I figured it would have to be good enough.

Just as we were getting their pajamas on, we heard the garage door opening. The oompa loompas lost their freakin’ minds.

“Daddy!” “Dad’s home!!” They were tearing down the stairs before I could even stand up. I heard Mr. Thompson greeting them, and I held my breath, waiting for him to comment on the putrid green tinge their skin had taken on. Instead, he seemed please that they had been bathed. He put them to bed as I washed the dishes from our Spaghettio dinner.

I heard keys jingling and looked up from the Sleeping Beauty cup I was drying. “Come on. Leave those. I’ll drive you home.” I did what I was told and headed over to my shoes. In the car, Mr. Thompson made small talk, commenting on the weather and the upcoming community garage sale. Pretty soon we were pulling into my driveway, and Mr. Thomspon was handing me a 20-dollar bill for eight full hours of babysitting his sassy offspring.

I was on Cloud Nine.

Twenty dollars! I was already shopping in my head, picturing candy buttons and cherry sours and warheads….I was a candy junkie and 20 dollars meant a whole lot of candy.

I went on to babysit for the Thompsons several more times. I’m not sure if I was just plain naïve or a glutten for punishment. All I knew was that I had a steady supply of candy and I could buy Tiger Beat or Teen Bop anytime I wanted. What more could any pre-teen want? In my book, I had it ALL and I was as happy as a clam.