THE GOLD FISH: Waiting (3.4)
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Loch Raven Public Library was 12 years old. Just like Barbie. Built in 1960, the library was an aspirational mid-century-modern architectural marvel, whose nearly hidden sylvan location and lightness on the land were meant to inspire serious thought and Walden-like reflections on the importance of nature.
It was aspirational, alright. Nestled into a wedge-shaped wooded lot with no direct access from either the adjacent Taylor Avenue or the residential street of Clyde Bank Aly, visitors were required to apply the way-finding skills of an orienteer and nerves of steel to even enter the damned place. And what its secluded, miles long (or so it seemed), and poorly lit, concrete entranceway truly inspired were all the pedophiles, miscreants, and axe murderers in town looking for easy, innocent prey. Because honestly, what was more innocent -- and delicious -- than prepubescent library goers?
It was down this creepily empty corridor that Barbie now scurried. She wasn’t scared exactly. After all, it was only 4pm and still light outside. But let’s just say she was eager to get inside.
Funny, she had imagined the biggest obstacle to this whole endeavor would have been getting a ride home. But when she had called her father at the dealership the day before -- feeling very grown up, by the way, when asking if she could please speak to Mr. Ward -- he had been delighted to get her call. Not only had he claimed to be happy to pick her up at the library the next night, he’d even promised to leave work a little early, it being a school night and all.
Who knew, Barbie thought to herself as she raced down the ramp and rounded the final set of stairs, that her biggest challenge might be getting inside the building… alive.
A few hours later, Barbie sat at a big library table embroidering a chain of daisies down yet another pair of denim pant legs, her eyes darting constantly between her needlework and the set of double doors at the entrance, wondering what the heck was keeping Pickles? Pickles’ jeans, now embellished with greenish-red vines and clusters of three-leaved sprigs, sat besides her.
Finally, the entrance doors were flung open and Pickles made her entrance. Pausing briefly to flick a lit cigarette into the trees -- clearly she’d missed the only you can prevent forest fires! memo -- she sauntered towards Barbie, followed by two other girls. Under Donna’s arm was another pair of jeans.
“Not bad,” said Donna, once she’d examined Barbie’s handiwork.
Barbie couldn’t help but point out the finer points of her work. “See, I used two different colors of green there and—” She snapped her mouth shut, stopping herself from continuing. Why on earth was she trying to impress Pickles, she wondered. Because if she were honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had worked harder on this piece than almost any other. Why had she done that? It made no sense!
“And…?” asked Pickles finally.
Barbie shook her head, mute.
The girls stood there for a beat, staring at each other awkwardly, before Donna dug into her pocket, shoved two dollars into Barbie’s hand, then threw the other pair of pants on the table.
“I’ll have snakes on these ones. Down each leg.”
Snakes were exactly what Barbie would have expected and she snorted at the obviousness of it. She couldn’t help herself.
“What?” glared Donna.
“Nothing.”
One of Donna’s lackey’s now pushed ahead, and threw her own jeans on the table.
“Can you do peace signs on mine?” she demanded.
Oh boy, thought Barbie. There was no backing out now, even if she wanted to. But the good news was with this new batch of work, she was within striking distance of her goal. Once she had that $50 in her hot little hand, she would be done. She’d never have to talk to Pickles again. The sooner, the better.
“Actually,” said Barbie, thinking of how she might make sooner come even sooner. “Circles are really hard. That’ll cost you $3.”
The girl blinked. Then shrugged. “Yeah, okay. But make them different colors, okay?”
“Sure.”
:::
After Pickles and her pals had left, Barbie realized she still had well over an hour before her father picked her up. Ugh.
The truth was she was sick to death of embroidering. Barbie wasn’t the first fledgling entrepreneur to discover turning a passion into a business might be the surest way to turn said passion into hate, and she wouldn’t be the last, but at this particular moment, she told herself she just needed to take a walk, to stretch her legs. First, she got a refreshing drink from the water fountain, and then she roamed the aisles.
Her first circuit turned up nothing of interest, but as she turned a corner, she found herself face-to-face with a copy of The Hobbit, the same exact book she had seen in Wesley’s car! It was sitting right on top of a “returns” cart, as if waiting for her to find it. Right on, she whispered to herself. Which of course, reminded her of Bridge. Which of course, led to a host of uneasy feelings about doing business with Pickles.
It will be fine, Barbie told herself with more confidence than she was actually feeling. She cracked open the book.
Within seconds, thoughts of her friend -- and anything else on Pitney Road for that matter -- flew straight out the window.
:::
The little hand on Don’s Timex had just reached the numeral eight when he remembered his promise to Barbie. Whelp, he thought to himself as he looked around the empty showroom, why not get a jump on things and leave now? There were no customers to deal with at this particular moment, and besides, he thought virtuously, didn’t he want to be the kind of father who was on-time for his precious Boo-boo? Yes, of course he did! He grabbed his car keys, and was just pushing through the showroom doors when he ran smack dab into Wolfman.
“Jesse,” cried the bearded man, slapping Don on the shoulder. “Just the man I was looking for. Give me a minute, will you?”
And within seconds, thoughts of his daughter -- and anyone else on Pitney Road for that matter -- flew straight out the window.
:::
Barbie was in another world. A world inhabited by furry footed hobbits, wizards with tall pointy hats, and dwarves with crazy names like Kili and Fili, and Bifur and Bofur. There wasn’t a lot of water in this story -- yet! -- but with a river on the cover, surely it was coming. Besides, Bilbo, Gandalf, Thorin and the rest of the dwarves were on a mission. An important, exciting, and dangerous mission over the misty mountains to, if Barbie understood it correctly, find a dragon and win his gold. Maybe in a poker game, Barbie thought happily. Oh this, she had to see.
She would have quite happily stayed at the library and read through the night, if not for the announcement that came over the library’s PA system.
“The library will be closing in 15 minutes,” said a soothing, female voice. “Please return periodicals to their rightful place, and bring any books you’d like to borrow to the librarian at the check out counter.”
Barbie startled. Jeez Louise, she wondered, what time is it? A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was 8:45pm. Her father was probably outside waiting for her, at this very moment. Barbie grabbed her bag and the book, and headed for the check out counter.
:::
Minutes later, Barbie stood in the chilly night air at the end of the concrete ramp scanning the parking lot for her father’s car and trying not to panic.
She watched as multiple, twin sets of red tail lights disappeared into the distance. But sadly, no white headlights swung into the parking lot to replace them. Behind her, the lights inside the library started to snap off one by one. Soon, she was alone. In the dark.
Don’t be scared, she told herself. Don’t be scared. He’s just late. As usual.
Barbie slid down the concrete wall, thinking it might be best to make herself as small as possible. If any axe murderers were around, she thought, it would probably be best not to draw attention to herself.
It wasn’t long before the damp chill of the concrete had worked its way into Barbie’s back and bottom. A shiver went down her spine, and with it, came a memory. Actually, a series of memories. From three winters ago.
At the time, both Barbie and Karen were still at IHM. The perennially underfunded IHM had no cafeteria, let alone a bus service, so Joan had to drive them to school everyday. Until, that is, she got pregnant with The Belle and became horribly, relentlessly afflicted with morning sickness. No matter what she did or ate or drank OR didn’t do or eat or drink, she vomited profusely, violently, and constantly until about 10am every day.
During this terrible time, Joan had to beg Don to drive the girls to school. Because there was absolutely no way she could drive in her condition. What was she going to do, vomit in her purse? Or out the window? Oh she knew it would be difficult. Don never, ever, ever got up on time and simply refused to be rushed. But honestly, what other options did she have?!
As a result, it shouldn’t have been -- and wasn’t -- a surprise that the girls were late to school… every… single… day.
But still, the days when the girls were only late were the good days.
The days when it had snowed overnight or there was even the thinnest layer of frost on the windshield were, to Barbie and Karen anyway, the bad days. Because on those days, once Don had miraculously gotten himself into the car, he actually refused to move until the ice or snow had melted off. Not scraped off, mind you, but melted off. He would sit there with the defroster and wipers going full blast, smoking a cigarette, and waiting -- just waiting -- for the windshield to clear. While the frozen Karen and Barbie sat in the backseat, their bare legs goosebumped against the cold vinyl seats, their reddening eyes and running noses peeking out between mufflers and hats. No matter how much they complained, no matter how much they begged him to just get out of the car and scrape the windshield like their mother did -- like a NORMAL PERSON, Karen usually screamed -- he refused. He just sat there. So they did too. In the cold. Waiting and waiting. Watching the minutes tick by on the car’s clock. Watching the patch of clear glass as it grew slowly and infinitesimally bigger and bigger. Cheering loudly whenever -- by some unknowable, unlikely providence of God -- a big chunk should slide off in one fell swoop. Knowing that the longer they needed to wait, the later for school they would be, and the more crap they would have to endure from the nuns. But there was no preventing it. Don just sat there until every little sliver of ice had fled the scene and the windshield was as dry and clear as on a summer day. Then, and only then, would he put the car into gear and drive.
On those days, the girls’ lateness to school was the least of it. Because on those days, the girls also had to face their father’s blatant disregard for them. His obvious lack of… well, it seemed to them, love. Why else would he so thoroughly disregard their feelings, so cavalierly dismiss their needs? In the deepest, darkest corners of themselves, both girls felt they must have deserved it. And even though Don’s lazy behavior towards them had no other witnesses — except each other — the shame of his negligence clung to them. Like invisible soap scum they would never be able to scrub off.
NO, thought Barbie as she snapped back to the present. That’s it! I’m done with waiting. And with that, she got to her feet, adjusted her bulging bag across her body, and strode off into the night.
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