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I DON'T LIKE BALLOONS
mikael covey
“My daddy got me this” says Wendy, showing us the toy from McDonald’s. So
happy, so proud. Wants us to share her joy; the feeling of being worthy of such
nice gifts. “He’s not your daddy” says Grandpa, the old man. “Fuck off” I tell him
“goddamn what’re you trying to do.”
Now he’s mad at me. I’m to blame, the asshole with the terrible temper. Made
my own kids miserable by yelling all the time. Fuck you. Try to explain it. Little
three-year-old is all we got in the whole fuckin' world. Everything our worthless
lives ever amounted to. And more than anyone else could ever have. So brilliant,
happy little angel, smartest kid I ever saw.
But what’s she got. Mom in jail, rehab, weekend visits for half hour. Grandma, my
ex, who was the real asshole, yelling at the kids ‘til none of us could take it
anymore. And her husband, who Wendy calls “daddy.” Well, at least she’s got
one, or somebody to hang that tag on. It’s different, maybe. I’m her “Papa” she’s
my little girl, mommy’s my daughter too. Doesn’t add up but that’s how it is.
“Nobody ever listens to me anyway” says the old man. Yeah, kids never listen to
what old people say. But maybe he’s catching on; maybe he’ll figure it out.
Everything I do, everything I do is for that kid. Work my ass off, clean, cook,
wash dishes, clothes; attend to every need. Watching her dance little ballet
steps to oldie’s music on tv. “Watch me Papa, watch me” spinning and twirling,
making it up as she goes along. God she’s good, so full of life, everything that’s
wonderful and pure and good, what life is all about.
One night, late, I go to the store to get stuff. Jeez, I’m beat, all the time, never
enough sleep, too much work. Now its cold out, can’t even take little kid to the
park or school playground. This is our outing, go to the store for groceries.
And such a scamp she is. Gotta have little kid’s shopping cart to push. Wants
expensive yogurt with the Dora cartoon. Wants this, wants that. “Can’t afford it”
I tell her. Mommy and mommy’s sister and their mom spent all Papa’s money.
Barely making ends meet, paying off their bills too.
Gotta scrimp no matter how hard you work, how much you make; all goes for
somebody else’s shit. Hell of a life. Always wanted the best for my kids. Stuff I
never got ‘cause we were poor. Stuff they never got ‘cause their mom pissed it all
down the drain. Never ends, same old shit for poor little Wendy.
Done shopping and ready to go, Wendy asks “can you get me a balloon.” It’s
late, nobody in the store. Nice old check-out lady finds the night manager who
goes to the flower and gift section and blows up a balloon. Ties it to Wendy’s
wrist. She’s so happy. I’m always trying to make her happy; make a good life for
her.
Go out to the car, cold black night, all the groceries and little girl too. Stick her in
the front seat, but she wants to get out, help push the cart back to where they
stack ‘em in the parking lot. Balloon comes unraveled, floats away forever into
the black night sky. “Goddamnit Wendy, why can’t you do what I tell you to?
Couldn’t just sit in the goddamn car, could you. Had to get out, didn’t you?”
Go on like that ‘til we’re home. Little kid crying, me rubbing it in. Do what Papa
says once in awhile. Maybe he knows what he’s talking about. Now you don’t
have the pretty balloon the nice folks went to all that trouble to give you. Pissed
it down the toilet like everyone else always does.
Couple of months later, some blow-up about picking up all the crap in the living
room. Toys and books all over hell, can’t even walk through without tripping on
something. Go to bed mad. Doesn’t matter; gotta get up and go to work anyway.
Little girl comes over, gets in bed with me. Tells me I’m “crabby Papa.” “I know” I
tell her “I oughtta go away, move in with Aunt Ruthie down in Omaha. You can
live with Grandma.”
Little girl considers it. “I don’t want you to do that, Papa. I want you to stay here
with me.” “Okay” I tell her “if you’ll forgive me for getting mad sometimes.” She
puts her arms around me, gives me a kiss “I love you Papa.”
Later, I’m drifting off to sleep, little girl whispers in my ear “Papa...I don’t like
balloons.”
(c) 2008 by Mikael Covey