BETSY--UNDERWARE

7/2/99

Mom and Dad’s

There’s something weird in this house that allows me to sit, unentertained, for stretches of time. Usually not more than a few minutes, but I’ve never tested it. The lawn is alive, the chairs are comfy, the air is heady, freash, almost liquid. Ordinarily, when I’m left alone, I immediately glance around for something to read or play with. Here, if I’m sitting and suddenly alone, I sort of glaze over. Sometimes I drift off in meditation, often overwhelmed by memories.

One of the household ghosts fucked with me tonight. Except for the late cats, I’m generally not affected by the residual spirits in this place. They drive my friends crazy, but I think I grew too used to them before I knew they were there. Tonight I was on the damn toilet, and just as I stood up I heard my dad’s voice outside the bathroom door. Just as quickly, I knew it wasn’t him, but I yanked up my pants and peeked out anyway. Then I exhaled in a disgusted chuckle and whispered, “You fuckers.”

I spent today wheeling and dealing and generally charming everyone in sight, and I cleaned out my parents’ yard sale. We scheduled it for 2 days, but if we actually held it tomorrow we’d be sitting outside with a box of books, a few boxes of vinyl LP’s, and a pair of cowboy boots. No point. We scored over $500, not counting the sunburn, and the cash Mr. Callahan slipped me.

After we packed the remaining crap into boxes, Dad and I loaded it into the bed of his brand-new pickup and took it all down to the Goodwill Larc dropoff by Country Market. Neither of us ever had a pickup before. As we drove down Springbrook Ave., a box-lid flew from the back of the truck and landed in the street. We pretended not to notice and kept driving. On the way home we passed the lid and saw the duct-taped label: “BETSY—UNDERWARE.” Later, when Dad made Betsy—underware jokes, I pointed out that it was even more embarrassing that he’d spelled “underwear” incorrectly.