... The World According to ...
June 10, 1999
4:59 a.m.
Guess what I have," Brigid said. I had just walked in the door and was in the middle of my usual fervent scanning of the counter for the day's mail. Brigid's voice came from behind, on the stairwell that leads to her room. "Hmmm ... ," I said, finding only this month's Analog. "I bet you have a present for Daddy." "Nope." Now, I know that nothing works at a rapid pace in the publishing industry. Heck, the contract I signed with Analog included an 18 month reversion clause, meaning they have a year and a half in which to publish my work before the rights revert to me. Still, I had to peek at the table of contents, you know? I mean, miracles can occur, right? "Guess again," Brigid said with impatience riding on her voice. "Uh ...." I can be particularly snappy with the dialog, eh? Anyway, my investigation proved for certain that I was not yet published in the magazine, so I reset my mind and tried to remember the question. "What did you want?" Brigid scowled. Her cheeks and the point of her nose were lightly burned from a day at the swimming pool, giving her that really cute ten-year-old look that usually seems to only happen on greeting cards. "What do you think I have?" "I don't know. Give me a hint." "It's a CD." "Ahhhh," I said, understanding dawning. "You got Millennium." "Yep," she smiled. "And I've already listened to the first song." Brigid only gets five dollars a week allowance, of which half has to go into her savings account. So, she's been working like mad around the house to make a few extra bucks. A week ago she made a cool $12 by washing our cars. And another $2 for sweeping out the garage. Late last week she hit the bonanza and got $20 for doing a total cleaning of the back porch and all its furniture. So, she had money burning a hole in her pocket. She's been wanting to buy a walkman, or a Game Boy. Planning and planning, you know how it goes. Working diligently. But Brigid, like apparently 11 million other pre-teen girls, is also a huge Backstreet Boys fan from way back. And apparently Lisa took her to Target, and she just couldn't block the urge to pull the trigger. So she bought Millennium, and is now in heaven. That evening, she made sure she told me what her favorite song was--it's the first one on the album, by the way . . . assuming "album" is still and acceptable term. Yesterday morning I walked upsatirs to get ready for work, and she was in her room. I can walk pretty quietly when I want to, I guess. And she didn't hear me coming. The music was playing, and she was singing to herself. I could hear her moving, almost certainly dancing. I paused a few steps from the bottom. I wanted to peek in. Let me tell you that I wanted to peek in the very worst way. There is a book called The World According to Garp, which was made into a movie for Robin Williams. In it, the main character and his wife occasionally get a babysitter, then go outside to watch the kids play without them knowing because they can then watch them in a more natural environment, kind of a parent's version of breaking the Heisenberg Principle, I suppose. I always thought that part of the book was kind of sickeningly cute. But it's true. I wanted to see her spin, and see her hair flounce, and to listen to her tiny voice as it sang along. Suddenly I was Robin Williams, grinning selflessly and wanting more than anything to revel in my daughter being ten. A long time ago, when I was maybe twelve, we had a reel-to-reel tape player. When my uncle passed away a few years back, we received all his old tapes, and in there somewhere was a tape that apparently was rolling while my brother and I and several friends were playing downstairs. Our voices were high as a reed whistles. A ping pong game played in the background, and a couple of us were playing a dice-based baseball game. I sat there listening to that tape for a long time, letting memories hit me, seeing Scotty McDonald's curled hair, and Mike Cox's skin-and-bones frame. And my heart stretched like a kite catching a warm updraft. Back at the ranch, the Backstreet Boys sang on while I thought about what to do. The boys crooned, their voices mixing together in my mind like the memories of Donny Osmond and David Cassidy. I hated Donny and David. The truth can be told now. I thought they were weenies. Of course, that was because all the girls my age loved them. Regardless, I knew what would happen if I glanced in. She would catch me, and she likely would be mortified. She wouldn't understand how I felt to be there, listening to her. Someday, Brigid will know that feeling. Someday. Maybe someday I'll give her a collection of these journal entries. And maybe that day will be the day that she understands. Maybe this commentary right here will bring back the sound of the Backstreet Boys, and the open gray carpet she was dancing on, and the stars on the walls of her room, and all her stuffed animals that had the great privilege of watching her prance around in her room. And then she'll know why I slipped quietly away to go about taking my shower and do all those regular things it takes to get ready for another day.   Have a very good one.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"No man can possibly know what life means, what the world means, what anything means, until he has a child and loves it. And then the whole universe changes and nothing will ever again seem exactly as it seemed before." Lafacadio Hearn |
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