Lolita-Napoleon Incarnate
Last Sunday, in giving 15 hours of it up to my parents’ film project, I found myself in a gully with two children - one being my brother, who is five, and the other a near stranger of nine; a daughter of a doctor who was involved in the project. We will call her Dora.
My job was to keep their screeching as far away from the boom microphones and as happily occupied as possible, which is why it was decided that the tadpoles were our best bet. This time of year, where I live, it is not uncommon to note that in the close-to-entirely-dried-up creek running down the center of the canyon, there are clusters of black hovering just above the sand. These clusters are easily exploded by flicking the water above them, and can serve as hours of riveting entertainment for people of all ages. That is, if torturing small, vision-less creatures can be considered good times. Normally I would have found another activity, but unfortunately my brother is a headstrong five year old that gets loud when contested, and the purpose of my being there was to keep things quiet, so I did not contest.
Dora was talkative, bossy, and inquisitive, the way most nine year olds are.
“What’s your name? How old are you? Where do you go to school? Why don’t you go to school? Where are you going to school? Why? Is it pretty there? Why don’t you cut your hair? My brother had long hair, but he cut it. He wants to go to NYU for film school but now he isn’t sure because of all the other schools asking him to go there or wherever. He makes movies though, with my other brothers. He says they’re just for fun. I think that’s okay, don’t you? I would rather make fun movies than movies that were no fun at all. I’m in fourth grade because I skipped third. I’m really smart. Move, okay? What’s your name again?”
Nadia.
“Oh. Well, Nadia, move. Thanks.”
The fact that Dora was all of those things didn’t disturb me initially, as it’s to be expected of nine. So long as nothing died as a result of her trading places with me, I was fine. But then she picked up a very long, thin stick, and said, “Let’s play cotton plantation!”
“What’s that?” asked my brother.
“Dora, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
Dora frowned, raised her arm, and cracked the stick in the water, like a whip. Tadpoles exploded everywhere, but soon settled. “Fine,” she said. “How about we pretend sift for gold, then? We can be gold-diggers. I’m learning all about it in class.”
“That sounds better,” I told her, relieved I didn’t have to reason with a little girl in front of my younger sibling.
Dora’s game of “gold-digger” essentially consisted of ordering my brother and I around.
“Go down to that rock and see if you can find a nugget or two, vermin! And don’t let me catch you slacking off with that fire-water you tote in your sock. You thought I didn’t know about that? Well, think again, wise-guy, ‘cause I see EVERYTHING!
“Woman!” she said, addressing me, “Go make us our supper! It’s your JOB!”
She turned for the following 30 seconds and pretended to sift through the sand. When she looked up and saw me watching her, however, she had not shifted character a bit.
“What are you, stupid? Get your sorry behind up those stairs and fetch some water! I want me some rabbit stew! Y’hear? Get!”
To my surprise, I found myself turning and walking up the embankment, waiting a moment, and walking down again. I can’t really tell you why I did it, other than that I felt that by staying I would only illicit more jack-southern orders from a child I hardly knew. A part of me wonders if there was more to it than that.
When I was nine, I lacked the backbone to be anything but the tag-along. I found most girls my age so socially over-bearing that the only way I could be a part of the noise was to mimic it, as opposed to making my own. On the few occasions that I did make my own, I was considered a freak. I decided that in order to keep the jack-friends I had, I would have to do whatever ridiculous thing they told me to. I thought I was better off disrespectfully tolerated than thought of as a total weirdo.
But when I got back to the bank of the creek, Dora was once again displeased. “Don’t you know how to do ANYTHING right? Didn’t you go to SCHOOL?”
I held out my arm, an imaginary bucket of heavy imaginary water hanging from my balled fist. “I got you your water,” I said.
“Did you hear that?” Dora called to my brother, who was whole-heartedly ignoring our transaction. “She got us water for dinner. Isn’t that sweet?”
“That’s what you asked for.”
“I asked for rabbit stew, but since you been gone all this time, I changed my mind. We both did. Didn’t we?”
My brother grunted.
Dora turned and pretended to pick up something big in her arms.
“I caught us an injun for dinner.”
“You what?”
“I caught us an IN-DI-AN for DIN-NER.”
“Why would you want that?”
“I like the taste of savage meat.”
And with that, she transferred the imaginary carcass of Sitting-Bull into my shrugging, outstretched arms, and ordered me to bake it.
“In the oven,” she said. “Don’t worry about gutting it. The intestines will evaporate if the temperature is right.”
“I don’t bake people,” I told her. “We may be gold-diggers, but we’re not cannibals.”
“You were the one in the Donner Party,” she shot back. “If you don’t want to eat it, catch yourself a rabbit. WE want INJUN for supper.”
Lately, though, my fuse has shortened in regard to dominative squirts. Over the years I have found my position to be that of the hired-caretaker more than once, and it has not been uncommon to find me cowering before what barely reaches my nipples. Somehow the money doesn’t measure up anymore when my pride walks into the picture. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time I’ve lost my inhibition and forgotten my supposedly ingrained small-town consciousness, because I’ve rubbed dirty marks all over my reputation a number of times in the years I’ve lived in Topanga. The only difference between now and then, is that I used to feel guilty if I didn’t hold my tongue. I used to try harder to make nice. Maybe my lack of reserve has to do with that I’m leaving in August.
“Well,” I told her, “YOU can clean up THE MESS afterward, if you want it that badly.”
“I dig gold,” she said. “I don’t have TIME for messes.”
“Then,” I said, “You can take your injun and eat your gold while you bury him under a proper tombstone, because I’m not cooking anybody today.”
Dora folded her arms in a huff across her chest and turned from me without a word to walk up the embankment.
“Where’s she going?” asked my brother.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Probably to the bathroom.”
“Oh, that’s good. She talks too fast.” he said.
I heaved the invisible cadaver into the water between us. The tadpoles went undisturbed.
My job was to keep their screeching as far away from the boom microphones and as happily occupied as possible, which is why it was decided that the tadpoles were our best bet. This time of year, where I live, it is not uncommon to note that in the close-to-entirely-dried-up creek running down the center of the canyon, there are clusters of black hovering just above the sand. These clusters are easily exploded by flicking the water above them, and can serve as hours of riveting entertainment for people of all ages. That is, if torturing small, vision-less creatures can be considered good times. Normally I would have found another activity, but unfortunately my brother is a headstrong five year old that gets loud when contested, and the purpose of my being there was to keep things quiet, so I did not contest.
Dora was talkative, bossy, and inquisitive, the way most nine year olds are.
“What’s your name? How old are you? Where do you go to school? Why don’t you go to school? Where are you going to school? Why? Is it pretty there? Why don’t you cut your hair? My brother had long hair, but he cut it. He wants to go to NYU for film school but now he isn’t sure because of all the other schools asking him to go there or wherever. He makes movies though, with my other brothers. He says they’re just for fun. I think that’s okay, don’t you? I would rather make fun movies than movies that were no fun at all. I’m in fourth grade because I skipped third. I’m really smart. Move, okay? What’s your name again?”
Nadia.
“Oh. Well, Nadia, move. Thanks.”
The fact that Dora was all of those things didn’t disturb me initially, as it’s to be expected of nine. So long as nothing died as a result of her trading places with me, I was fine. But then she picked up a very long, thin stick, and said, “Let’s play cotton plantation!”
“What’s that?” asked my brother.
“Dora, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
Dora frowned, raised her arm, and cracked the stick in the water, like a whip. Tadpoles exploded everywhere, but soon settled. “Fine,” she said. “How about we pretend sift for gold, then? We can be gold-diggers. I’m learning all about it in class.”
“That sounds better,” I told her, relieved I didn’t have to reason with a little girl in front of my younger sibling.
Dora’s game of “gold-digger” essentially consisted of ordering my brother and I around.
“Go down to that rock and see if you can find a nugget or two, vermin! And don’t let me catch you slacking off with that fire-water you tote in your sock. You thought I didn’t know about that? Well, think again, wise-guy, ‘cause I see EVERYTHING!
“Woman!” she said, addressing me, “Go make us our supper! It’s your JOB!”
She turned for the following 30 seconds and pretended to sift through the sand. When she looked up and saw me watching her, however, she had not shifted character a bit.
“What are you, stupid? Get your sorry behind up those stairs and fetch some water! I want me some rabbit stew! Y’hear? Get!”
To my surprise, I found myself turning and walking up the embankment, waiting a moment, and walking down again. I can’t really tell you why I did it, other than that I felt that by staying I would only illicit more jack-southern orders from a child I hardly knew. A part of me wonders if there was more to it than that.
When I was nine, I lacked the backbone to be anything but the tag-along. I found most girls my age so socially over-bearing that the only way I could be a part of the noise was to mimic it, as opposed to making my own. On the few occasions that I did make my own, I was considered a freak. I decided that in order to keep the jack-friends I had, I would have to do whatever ridiculous thing they told me to. I thought I was better off disrespectfully tolerated than thought of as a total weirdo.
But when I got back to the bank of the creek, Dora was once again displeased. “Don’t you know how to do ANYTHING right? Didn’t you go to SCHOOL?”
I held out my arm, an imaginary bucket of heavy imaginary water hanging from my balled fist. “I got you your water,” I said.
“Did you hear that?” Dora called to my brother, who was whole-heartedly ignoring our transaction. “She got us water for dinner. Isn’t that sweet?”
“That’s what you asked for.”
“I asked for rabbit stew, but since you been gone all this time, I changed my mind. We both did. Didn’t we?”
My brother grunted.
Dora turned and pretended to pick up something big in her arms.
“I caught us an injun for dinner.”
“You what?”
“I caught us an IN-DI-AN for DIN-NER.”
“Why would you want that?”
“I like the taste of savage meat.”
And with that, she transferred the imaginary carcass of Sitting-Bull into my shrugging, outstretched arms, and ordered me to bake it.
“In the oven,” she said. “Don’t worry about gutting it. The intestines will evaporate if the temperature is right.”
“I don’t bake people,” I told her. “We may be gold-diggers, but we’re not cannibals.”
“You were the one in the Donner Party,” she shot back. “If you don’t want to eat it, catch yourself a rabbit. WE want INJUN for supper.”
Lately, though, my fuse has shortened in regard to dominative squirts. Over the years I have found my position to be that of the hired-caretaker more than once, and it has not been uncommon to find me cowering before what barely reaches my nipples. Somehow the money doesn’t measure up anymore when my pride walks into the picture. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time I’ve lost my inhibition and forgotten my supposedly ingrained small-town consciousness, because I’ve rubbed dirty marks all over my reputation a number of times in the years I’ve lived in Topanga. The only difference between now and then, is that I used to feel guilty if I didn’t hold my tongue. I used to try harder to make nice. Maybe my lack of reserve has to do with that I’m leaving in August.
“Well,” I told her, “YOU can clean up THE MESS afterward, if you want it that badly.”
“I dig gold,” she said. “I don’t have TIME for messes.”
“Then,” I said, “You can take your injun and eat your gold while you bury him under a proper tombstone, because I’m not cooking anybody today.”
Dora folded her arms in a huff across her chest and turned from me without a word to walk up the embankment.
“Where’s she going?” asked my brother.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Probably to the bathroom.”
“Oh, that’s good. She talks too fast.” he said.
I heaved the invisible cadaver into the water between us. The tadpoles went undisturbed.