The baby-sitter is screaming even before they leave
WE LEAVE THE HOUSE WITH Cheerios in our dress shoes and the teeth-clenched expressions of suburbanites escaping the kids for a few precious hours. Someone’s turning 40. Which is an odd expression, “turning 40.” Frankly, you’re either 40 or you’re not.
“What time will you be home?” asks the older daughter, home for the weekend.
“Ten-ish,” I say.
“ ‘Ish’ is not a time,” she says.
“Then midnight,” I say.
“Midnight-ish,” says my wife.
This is met with howls of protest. Ever notice how the kids don’t love you till you’re about to leave? After 20 years of parenthood, I see no value in hanging around the house.
“You can’t go that long,” the little girl says.
“Yes, we can,” her mother says.
We are leaving Fort Apache for about three hours. While we are gone, our four kids will be holding one another hostage. As soon as we shut the door, I figure the Cat in the Hat comes out and orders oodles of snoodles and a case of Jack Daniels. I don’t care. Because, for the first time in a month, we are going out.
“I think I’m forgetting something,” my wife says.
“Your gun?”
“My cellphone,” she says.
We were this close -- see my fingers? -- this close to escaping. We had our seat belts on, and I was checking over my shoulder to make sure I wouldn’t back the car into that maniac in the minivan who’s always roaring up the street.
“I’ll go get the cellphone,” I say.
“I got it,” my wife says and runs back inside Fort Apache.
In a minute, she’s back. The front door slams. The roof jumps a little. Mortar falls from between chimney bricks. In the attic, a possum stirs.
“Let’s go,” she says, and out of the driveway we fly like Bonnie and Clyde.
Our social life consists of softball games and pizza parties. An occasional birthday. An orgy here and there. Trips to Sea World. We’re like you, only you’re invited more places, probably by nicer people. On this night, the cellphone rings before the first stop sign. We haven’t left our block, and the kids are calling.
Wife: “Hello?”
Kid: “MOM!!!”
I don’t hear both sides of the conversation, but it apparently goes something like this:
Wife: “Hello?”
Kid: “MOM!”
Wife: “What’s wrong?”
Kid: “MOM!”
Wife: “What’s that noise?”
Kid: “The toilet ... it’s overflowing.”
Wife: “Why?”
Kid: “We’re using it to put out the kitchen fire.”
Or something to that effect. Nothing too serious. My wife hangs up and stuffs the phone deep into the belly of her purse. Down among the hair bands and Nordstrom receipts. You could dam the Nile with her Nordstrom receipts.
“You know, I don’t think 40 is that old anymore,” I say.
“Did you bring the card?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s in my pants.”
I don’t know why I say this, except that it’s good to be irreverent on dates. Despite what women say, well-meaning nice guys never really appeal to them. They prefer someone dangerous and unpredictable. Which, one day, will be the words on my gravestone. “Dangerous. Unpredictable. Dead.”
“Take a left here,” my wife says.
“OK,” I answer.
We are off to a birthday party for the little girl’s former teacher, the one who was married on the edge of the Pacific just a few years ago. The bride wore white. The ocean, Dodger blue.
It was a great wedding. Drunk on sea air, we danced till 11 p.m. As it got late, I spotted a man kissing his own wife. How perverse is that? How surprising and wonderful. If I remember right, she was kissing him back. Of course, they had only been married three hours.
Now the bride is turning 40. The fancy Pasadena restaurant is prepared for the party. They’ve called in extra firefighters just for the cake.
“She still looks 30,” I tell my wife.
“I know,” my wife agrees.
“And acts 20,” I say.
But in a good way. In a girlish, full-of-life way. The guest of honor spends her weeks teaching second-graders. Inevitably, some of her youthful glow rubs off on them.
“Who’s going to be there?” I ask.
“Bill and Nancy,” my wife says.
“Good,” I say.
“The Segals too,” she says.
“What’s his name again?”
“Pete,” she says.
This is the usual pre-party briefing. A refresher on first names of the people we haven’t seen in two months. It’s like the postgraduate version of “The Newlywed Game.” One day, when our society is really enlightened, everyone will have their first names tattooed on their tongues. Till then, we play the name game.
“Will Dave be there?” I ask.
“Probably.”
“And his wife’s name?”
“Susan.”
“”I was thinking Elmo,” I say.
“Susan,” she insists.
“Susan, Susan, Susan,” I say, as if cramming for the quiz.
“No, wait,” she says, “it’s Betsy.”
“Betsy, Betsy, Betsy,” I say again.
Turns out she’s kidding me. Yanking my chain, which is connected to my jaw, which is connected to my gallbladder. Why? I guess she’s trying to be irreverent. Dangerous. After 20 years, she’s stealing my shtick.
“Or maybe it’s Sarah,” she says.
“Very funny,” I say.
Inside the restaurant, a waiter brings a drink. I slurp it as if quaffing an oyster. Guests mingle, the day’s sun still glowing in their foreheads. Someone mentions Sting tickets. And the big Laker game Wednesday night.
And deep in my wife’s purse, the cellphone rings for the ninth time. Fort Apache. Someone flushed a cat. And the septic tank exploded. Nothing serious.
“Another round!” someone says.
I’m pretty sure it was me.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
