THE GOLD FISH: Tigers and Weebles (3.6)

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Barbie’s subconscious mind was aware of it before she was. It began softly enough with a muttered curse as a hairy shin met the corner of a dresser. Which triggered a series of scornful hisses and murderous “how could you’s.” Which, in turn, sparked a litany of slurred, defensive complaints. Which naturally led to the inevitable and -- let’s just call a spade a spade -- the usual symphony of full-throated screeches. But it was the slam of a door which finally brought Barbie to full wakefulness.

Oh boy, she thought as she lay there, her eyes wide open blinking in the darkness, knowing with crystal clarity what had woken her. Her parents were fighting again. But this time it was all her fault. Why had she ever asked her father to pick her up at the library? What had she been thinking?! How could she have believed for one single second that a tiger could change his stripes?

Why indeed?

She had let her guard down, that’s why. She had let the novel freedom of her wonderful new school, the joyful creativity and optimism of her new friend, and the unexpected popularity of her new embroidery business lull her into thinking that things could actually change. That things could actually go right. But Karen had been right all those weeks ago when she’d said “no matter what you do, things will never change.”

Barbie vowed to never make that mistake again.

:::

While Barbie was descending into this pessimistic abyss, Karen lay awake in the darkness beside her. Waiting. And waiting. For Barbie to try to cheer her up. Like she always did when their parents fought. Because honestly, didn’t Barbie owe her? After all, she had been the cause of the fight. And in addition to that crime, she had also gotten another ride in Wesley Sullivan’s car! It was so unfair! So clearly, Barbie should be doing everything in her power to even up the score. Yet for some stupid reason, she wasn’t.

Karen knew Barbie was awake. She could just feel it. So why wasn’t she singing? Why wasn’t she doing her goddamned duty?!

Another minute passed. Nary a peep from her sister.

Oh alright, thought Karen, she was going to have to get this party started herself.

“Sons of God…” she whisper-sang.

No response from Barbie.

“Hear his holy word…”

Silence.

“Gather round the table of the lord…?”

Okay, thought Karen, time to bring out the big gun, the line that always brought down the house.

“EAT HIS BODY, DRINK HIS BLOOD.”

But Barbie just rolled over and buried herself deeper into the blankets. Literally turning her back on her sister.

“Well jeez,” whined Karen. “Screw you, too.”

:::

A few days later, malaise still clung to Barbie’s skin like an overcoat she once needed, but was now too hot and heavy to wear. She knew her pessimism was making her feel unnecessarily uncomfortable, but she stubbornly clung to it, feeling somehow like she deserved the torture.

It was Saturday and she was helping her mother in the front yard rake and bag leaves in the late afternoon sun. Despite her vow to never be happy again, the seemingly infinite range of gorgeous reds, oranges, and golds surrounding her -- Barbie’s favorite color palette, after all -- were trying valiantly to cheer her up.

No! she thought. Think of something bad. Like the fact that the fall season brought a whole new set of annoying chores that she, and only she, would have to help her mother with.

Perfect example: earlier that day, Barbie had been made to repeatedly ascend and descend the attic stairs to retrieve heavy, cobwebby storm windows, help her mother wash and install them, then a few hours later, reverse the whole process with the screens. At no point during this up and down procedure, by the way, did Barbie even once attempt an Olga Korbut-like dismount from the attic stairs. Her determination to stay miserable was that strong.

But her resolve was weakening. After all, Don wasn’t the only tiger in the family, and she just couldn’t change her stripes. Barbie was like one of those Weebles that wobble, but don’t fall down. You could push her over time and time again, but she would always pop right back up again. Whether she wanted to or not.

Because the crisp fall day was undeniably gorgeous. A complete and total inspiration, you might say. And Mr. Charles, who had vanquished his leaves earlier, was on his front porch with Trixie, reading the newspaper and puffing on his pipe, which was sending the delicious smell of cherry tobacco towards Barbie.

She inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma, and had just started mentally comparing the array of fallen leaves to the colorful afghan which permanently adorned the Ward’s basement sofa, when a furious “HEY!” reached her from across the street.

It was Bridge, stomping towards her with what could only be described as a look of pure fury on her face.

She stopped in front of Barbie, leaned forward, hands on hips, and screamed “DONNA PICKLES?!! REALLY?!”

Barbie’s jaw dropped. Oh no, she thought. She was up the creek now.

Joan, a few feet away, edged back up the stairs in a rare moment of grace and shot a wide-eyed “what the heck?” glance at Mr. Charles, who returned the look with a shrug.

“So THAT’S why you haven’t been hanging out with me?!” demanded Bridge. “So you could play with HER instead?!”

“No, no, no,” Barbie sputtered. “It’s not like that. I didn’t play with her, I swear.”

“Well that’s not what I heard. I heard you two were at the LIBRARY together! And Jeannie Gibbons saw the pants you decorated for her, and she told Heidi, and Heidi told Robbie, and Robbie told ME! So what? You two are best friends now?!”

“Ewww… No,” cried Barbie. “And I didn’t decorate her pants. I embroidered them.”

“Well excuse me, Miss Fancy Pants!” spat Bridge, annoyed to death with Barbie’s vocabulary correction. “Embroidered them. Did she STEAL the thread for you too?! Or did you use the thread I STOLE for you!”

Barbie quickly glanced at her mother and Mr. Charles in alarm. Were they overhearing this? But both had their backs to her, as if there was suddenly something interesting written on Mr. Charles’ front door.

Barbie leaned in closer to Bridge and lowered her voice. “No. No. I used green thread. Which I bought with my profits. And anyway, she paid me $2 to do it. Which is twice what I normally charge. It was just…” she trailed off, before adding with a sheepish shrug, “business.”

Bridge’s eyes narrowed. “Business, huh? Well goody, goody gumdrops for you. You can take your dumb business and shove it!” And with that she spun on her heel and stomped off. But only got about ten feet before she whirled back again.

“And from now on, stay away from my brother! He is NEVER giving you a ride in his car again. NEVER. EVER. EVER.”

Bridge paused to catch her breath and for the first time since crossing the street seemed to notice the presence of Joan and Mr. Charles. Her demeanor shifted instantly. “Oh hey, Mr. Charles. Miss Joan.”

Joan nodded politely.

“Hey Sli—” began Mr. Charles before quickly correcting himself. “I mean, Hey Miss Bridget. Nice to see you.” He saw no reason to antagonize this feral creature who had her claws out and seemed ready to use them.

Bridge nodded, then remembered her anger. She shot Barbie the meanest look she could muster and turned away.

“Bridge,” Barbie pleaded, “Wait!”

Bridge didn’t turn, only lifted her hand and shot Barbie the middle finger.

“But I don’t like Pickles,” Barbie shouted after her. “I’ve NEVER liked her. That’s why I embroidered her pants with POISON IVY! I thought you’d think it was funny.”

But Bridge just flung open her front door and disappeared inside.

See, Barbie thought to herself with slumped, dispirited shoulders, this is why I deserve to be miserable. She had just lost her best friend, and what could be worse than that?

Unfortunately, Barbie would soon learn that there were worse things than that. Things worse than she could possibly imagine.

:::

Don hung up the phone and rubbed his hands together. Don may not have been the only tiger in the family, but Barbie wasn’t the only Weeble either.

It was Sunday morning and he had just called in his football pools and bets to Wolfman, and was feeling pretty, pretty good. Yes, it was true that he had spent a few miserable days in Le Château Bow-Wow for failing to pick up Barbie from the library, but honestly, no harm, no foul. Barbie had managed to get home safely, just as he’d known she would. That girl was nothing if not resourceful. Besides, he hadn’t meant to forget her, hadn’t done it on purpose. He’d just been pre-occupied by his business with Wolfman. And look, Joan had gotten over it eventually. Helped no doubt by his heartfelt apology and not one, but two surprises, on Saturday night.

Oh how Don loved his surprises.

The first one had been a nice pair of gold hoop earrings he’d gotten a deal on from his jeweler friend Stew, and the second, a nice steak dinner out at Johnny Unitas’ restaurant, The Golden Arm, with their dear friends, Shirley and Russ and Harriet and Mel, all of whom Joan adored. The place had been jumping, positively electric with past and present football players, sports journalists, and various members of Baltimore’s elite. His ex-NFL buddy from work, Ron Brown, had helped him snag a reservation. Despite only scoring a cramped table in the back, it had still felt sexy and exciting to be part of the whole scene.

And they’d all had a grand old time, first downing Whiskey Sours with their meal and then pounding Drambuie neat til closing time and the maître d’ had had to throw them out. Joan had been in such a languid, relaxed mood when they’d gotten home, she had even let him count her freckles, so to speak, which was something she hadn’t let him do in a good old time.

And Don was proud to say (but maybe wouldn’t, lest it be held against him in a court of law) that both surprises leading to this rare and beautiful event had come courtesy of the steady stream of winnings from the football pools and modest bets he’d made with Wolfman the past few weeks. He had played it safe -- just as he had promised himself he would -- and that strategy had paid off. He was still in the black, even after his investment in gold earrings and a fancy dinner.

Kick off was in two hours, and Joan was downstairs cooking him a late Sunday pancake, scrambled egg, and sausage breakfast, which just might be one of his favorite meals of all time.

After that, he’d head to the basement, pour himself a small one, and tune into the Eagles/Chiefs pre-game coverage. Kick off was at 2pm at the brand new Arrowhead Stadium and it was sure to be rout. With a 0-5 record to date, Philly was headed into the wood chipper against the Chiefs, the AFC Western Division Champs and 17 point favorite. Don couldn’t wait to watch the carnage. You could give Philly all the points in the world and the Chiefs would still kill them, especially with Pete Liske as QB, whom Don felt had never performed as well in the US as he did in Canada. Yep. Even with that generous point spread, the safe bet was the Chiefs. And Don was playing it safe this time. Maybe not with his money, but definitely with the odds.

What could go wrong?

Next → Paybacks (3.7)