I found her parading around the living room with a bottle of vodka . . . : Notes on a Lazy Afternoon

I stole an afternoon last week and spent it with a beautiful little friend named Nicole. We took a walk in Topanga State Park, considered the wildflowers and learned there is more to life than Cajun martinis and bawdy language.

Nicole is 2 years old and as smart and quick as a hummingbird, so it is always a pleasure to spend time with her. The diversion is even sweeter when it is stolen time, which is to say hours that properly and logically ought to be utilized foraging for columns rather than drifting on warm breezes.

But sometimes you’ve just got to say to hell with columns or to hell with selling insurance or to hell with doing whatever you do and kick around with a good friend on a honey-toned afternoon that belongs to buzzing flies and lazy dogs barking in the summer distance.

It was more than just indolence that caused me to take this particular day off, however. It was pointed out to me recently that certain of my more contemptible habits are rubbing off on Nicole and I should bend every effort to manifest the positive aspects of my nature before I lead her boozing and cursing into damnation.

She has taken, for instance, to walking around the house with a fifth of vodka clutched in her small hand muttering, “Seven o’clock, damn it.”

I suppose I should explain that Nicole and her parents are living with us temporarily and she has proved to be an astute listener and observer, which often catches me off guard. It has been years since I have been expected to act as a role model for anyone and, as you might imagine, I am out of practice.

Words like “damn” often creep into my language, though I have made a valiant effort to curb the more colorful expletives. As for booze, I like a whimsical martini now and again, though I do not lie around swilling the stuff from 8-ounce tumblers.

When on rare occasions I do have a martini, mixed from my bottle of peppery vodka, everyone seems to notice.

“There you go again,” my wife says, certain I am going to end up with a case of the raving blue Johnnies anytime I reach for the Stolichnaya.

Even our dog Hoover cowers in a corner, waiting for disaster to strike.

“It’s all right,” I assure everyone. “I’m not driving, I’ve finished writing and I don’t intend to do a lot of dog-kicking this evening, so one martini won’t hurt.”

“Just don’t go whacko on us,” she says.

“Tie me to a chair when I’m finished if it will make you feel any better,” I say.

She nods, thinking about it and joins Hoover in watching me carefully.

Now I have Nicole watching too. It is not only unnerving to have a little girl staring as I sip a martini, it also bothers me to think I am, by example, marching her down the low road to degradation.

The day I found her parading around the living room with a bottle of vodka from my liquor cabinet announcing that it was 7 o’clock, damn it, convinced me I ought to try to modify my behavior in her presence. Also, I locked the liquor cabinet.

Nicole seems to emulate my least attractive traits, including the damn-it business, which sprang from my realization one evening that I had forgotten an appointment.

“It’s 7 o’clock, damn it,” I recall saying, and Nicole has repeated it ever since, often to indicate that the day is over and she is going to be forced to go to bed at any moment.

“I’m just glad you quit smoking cigars,” my wife said. “I don’t think I could take a 2-year-old walking around the house with a cigar in her mouth and a bottle of vodka in her hand swearing like a sailor.”

Well, all right. It was time to manifest a more positive side of my nature and to teach Nicole what I have learned trudging over trails that have crossed many mountains.

So I stole that afternoon and we spent it, Nicole and I, in higher pursuits.

We watched butterflies drift like tones of changing light through the filtered shadows of the garden and listened to the sounds of small life rustling in the ivy and studied a hawk that soared on ribbons of wind high above the oak trees.

We strolled through the amber afternoon to a hilltop in Topanga State Park where I used to hike with my son and looked at the distant horizon through a kaleidoscope that transformed whole mountains into dazzling shards of blossoms and triangles.

We saw a deer pause, listen then scurry up a hillside, and when Nicole wanted to know what it was running from we talked about caution and peril and being aware.

They were hours so rare and important and there was so much to say that I completely forgot to discuss the evils of Cajun martinis and bad language. I’ll have to save that for another magical afternoon, in another summer.

I think Nicole liked our stolen hours together anyhow. When they were over, she said, “It’s 7 o’clock, damn it.” A prevailing sense of limits is knowledge too. Even the best things end. That’s the hell of it.