Spidercamp

when i started meeting wealthy men i stopped being attracted to dove-gray suits

Here's an unfamiliar face, this trim blonde man in the expensive dove-gray suit. I can tell by his purposeful stride that he is an asshole, because a man does not walk into his kid's grammar school that way, because there's no need to, unless the guy simply knows no other way to walk, on account of being such an asshole. Because I am looking for a fight I step up and greet him pleasantly. Hi there. Are you looking for someone?

WHERE IS MY SON.

He's French. Grand.

I say I don't know who his son is, what is his name, please?

EDWARD. He has not met my eyes. Why bother? He seems content to stare frostily over my left shoulder, arms crossed, nose hilariously jacked up. Hold on while I fetch a sketchpad, you ridiculous snooty caricature, this is awesome.

I sweetly inform him that his son has not been signed into our program today. In other words he isn't anywhere in our building, so this man is in the wrong spot to find him.

He says nothing and strides away. Drama over, I figure, except nope, turns out the kid is neither in our building nor the school building nor anywhere in between. A lost kid is always worrisome and this one is only five. A search is organized, the school and our building are combed. Monsieur is shitting quiches.

Frantic announcements come over the P.A.: Edward, come to the school office RIGHT NOW, your father is looking for you! It's the wrong tactic; I don't know the kid very well but I know he is afraid of loud noises, and if he's scared enough to be hiding, a booming threat will not lure him out. And they should have said Mommy.

Incompetent Boss adds to the air of panic by standing in a cafeteria filled with our students and shrieking EDWARD! EDWARD! while whipping her head around, hoping to catch sight of him in the crowd. Except the crowd is all of about 30 kids, only half of whom are Edward�s size. And half of those are girls. Plus, as I inform her again, Edward is not there.

She hisses, I know! But I have to show the father I'm doing something to find him!

You're showing him you have no concept of who's enrolled in your program, doucheweed.

Through all this the father is clenching progressively tighter and tighter - fists, arms, face. He's flushed and ugly. He says not one word about being worried for his son's safety, and the only thing he seems to be feeling is fury, but I figure people express worry in different ways, and for all I know the French cloak their fear in absolute assholery.

I don't want to do this jerk any favors, but a missing kid is a missing kid. And Edward is so little. So I go outside and prowl the school grounds, the secret spots kids like to go when they think I'm not watching. In the thick hedges, behind the air conditioner. Nothing. It rains on me.

I go back in when I've looked everywhere and when I have an idea. I find the father and tell him I've checked everywhere outside, not because I want any sort of thanks but to note his lack of thanks. I pause, pointedly, to create a space where a thank-you could have gone, then ask whether he has called home, to make sure his wife or liveryman or something hasn't mistakenly picked up the child already.

I see him torn between a wish to scorn me further, and the knowledge that I've suggested a valid idea. No way am I going anywhere. I stand there dripping rainwater, my turn to fold my arms, while he calls home. He barks into the phone, pauses, barks, slams the phone shut, glares at me, spins and stalks away. I can't help but grin because hating me is free and it's all he can afford.

How many hipsters does it take to change a lightbulb?

God, I can't believe you don't already know.

-

I've been learning stupid made-up jokes from four-year-olds, who are the best ever at that. A very interesting thing happens with four- and five-year olds, and I'd love to know the actual psychology behind this: they think just about everything is hilarious. Six-year olds are wise to nonsense. They are jaded and sick of your shit. It still works on them if it's good nonsense, but not necessarily all the time. They know how to listen for and weigh a punchline, and they know how to say "That isn't funny." By seven or eight, a lot of them have learned the art of saying it wasn't funny, even when it was and you can see them dying, trying not to laugh. It's not cool to bust out laughing. I guess.

But with four, and sometimes five, you can say "tell me a joke" and then they'll say they don't know any jokes and then you say "Whaa? That's crazy, all you have to do is make it up, like this," and you do a retarded example with random words and then they're off and running, because they think you've taught them to be funny, and in a way you have. This has worked on pretty much every little kid I've ever tried it with. Just rolling on the floor laughing at themselves. It's a good time.

Knock knock?
-who�s there?
Banana.
-banana who?
BANANA CHICKEN!

-

Why do monkeys eat bananas?
Well it's better than swimming in the lake!

-

(and my favorite)

Why did the penguin go to the moon?
Oh he just loves it up there!

i don't remember ever being this innocent

An open face, a head of blonde hair. This tiny little kid runs up and hugs me around the knees (tiny!) every single day, starting with the first day of school, when I didn't know his name. I know it now; it's Joe, ridiculously adorable and funny little brother of Hannah, who I've known for years and who has always been an odd one too.

Finally I said, Joe, what's with the hugs?

He said, My sister says you're nice.

---

p.s. then he started shaking my hand all the time, solemnly. My sister says you like to shake hands. I have always wanted a reputation which would precede me.

nothing but ava anecdotes from now on, probably

At the end of my work day the gym is dark, quiet, and made odd by rows of stark folding chairs set up under the hoops and scoreboards. The eight-graders� open house will be held later tonight, and the chairs are for them and their parents to squirm uncomfortably in while listening to the principal yap. I feel thankful every day of my life for being done with school. Setting up chairs a few hours before an event makes sense; setting them up days in advance does not. In a shared space, priorities conflict. The gym has always doubled as the auditorium, and now that the church has been demolished (to make room for the new one, still unfinished, millions of dollars and three years in the making), the gym is also where mass is held on Sundays, holy days, and random days I swear the church invents so somebody can oilily guilt the parishioners into giving just a little more to pay for the gold knobs, the elegant carpets, the endless stained glass. I don't think about organized religion every day but when I do, it's with relief that I�m done with that as well. This church and school are staffed by people who refuse to communicate or compromise with each other. There's only the ugly theory of personal entitlement, everywhere I look. Everyone is convinced they are right about this. Most of the adults I say Hello to at my job do not say Hello back. They won't look at me, or they look through me, or they look right at me and turn away for something better. But I hear a lot about who funded what wing of the new church. They have no doubts about heaven. A lot of them don't say hello to their own kids when picking them up after school. There are parents I've known for years and still have never heard them say anything other than We're late. Get in the car. The people in charge of setting up chairs for events do not care whether the chairs prevent the after-school kids, who've been cooped up in desks all day, from playing in the gym, or whether they prevent actual gym class. If it's raining or boiling outside, there's nowhere else for the kids to run around. We can sit in the fluorescent glare of the cafeteria or we can sit against the gym wall on the skinny perimeter around the chairs. When there are chairs (sometimes set up three days before they're actually needed) we play a lot of board games, card games, I Spy, My Son John, and random nonsense. These diversions do not do the trick when all they want to do is run around, and they can't, because of the ugly banks of chairs that will be vacant and utterly useless to anyone for the next three days. Funny. This was only supposed to be about a trivial moment, but the chairs set me off. So it's the end of the day, in the weird shadowy gym. It's only me, a coworker, and Ava, whose mom is stuck in traffic, but nobody minds staying late for Ava. The gym echoes and most kids would be spooked. A horrible new mural looms darkly down on us from one cinderblock wall - the art teacher's unfortunate rendering of the head of a bobcat (I think), the basketball mascot, with open mouth, wicked teeth, blazing eyes. The paint ends unevenly at the neck, so the head appears to have been raggedly severed. It scares most little kids even in daylight but Ava is not troubled. There's nothing left to play so we go to sit in the chairs. I try to sit down and Ava says, Nope, can't sit there. Why not? Vampire in the chair. Wants to bite you on the butt. Vampire in the chair? Like, invisible? No. Living inside the chair. Kiddo that doesn't make any sense. Well. Like. Maybe a ghost of a vampire. I dunno. But he's gonna bite you if you sit there. I move down the row. -Can I sit here? Nope. Vampire. What about this one? Nope. She's funny but I'm real tired. I say, Ava I think I'm just gonna have to risk it. I'm sitting down. Ok, she says solemnly. But I feel sorry for your butt.

it kills me when girls hide their faces in their hands

Ava has a new doll with long brown ringlets and a lacy party dress. She's perfectly happy playing with it the normal way - as normal as Ava gets - and equally happy when I enlighten her that this one is a vampire who drinks the blood of little girls under the age of seven. Delighted, she swoops down on other kids, yelling HOW OLD ARE YOU as she runs. SIX? GREAT! I'M HERE TO DRINK YOUR BLOOD!

Ava's funny, undoubtedly weird, and has a wonderful memory. For these reasons we have a lot of running jokes. She's still pretending to believe I am my evil twin, and that's from last year. The vampire thing will stick; when she brings out her twin glitter angel cats I ask whether they drink blood and she says cheerfully, "Yep!"

Later, it's oddly touching when I discover Ava is afraid of thunder. Maybe it's because it's such a surprisingly mundane, common little-kid fear. She�s not afraid of much else in the world. She claps an angel cat over each ear and presses her face into my side. I can tell she's really scared when she stops talking nonsense. I tell her about lightning rods and draw her a diagram with a crayon stub. My science is seriously shaky but I emphasize the point that the lightning cannot get us and that seems to help a little. Still, every time it rumbles she gasps and hides. Is it over the school yet? Do you think it's going away or getting closer? Ten minutes later the storm has moved on and Ava's at ease, smiling, and mauling everybody's necks with a pink-winged cat.

the bravest kid I ever met

Kyle Sandek was dark and handsome. He was THE popular eight-grade boy, equally recognized and beloved among younger kids, all the way down to preschool. Everybody knew him because he gave everybody a hard time. Sort of a jackass sometimes, it must be said, but he knew how to make teachers laugh and he never acted with malice, so he got away with a ton of shit nobody else could have. Mostly he was a fun, funny kid who talked a lot and seemed to really dig every day of his life. I don't think I ever saw him bored. He died in a plane crash shortly before his fourteenth birthday.

I learned this from Heather Davis, one of the biggest cunts of all time. The first day back after Thanksgiving vacation, I walked into the building and she started in on me. You're late, get started pouring juice, we'll have to give the kids snack early today because we won't be able to use the cafeteria later because of the memorial service, Kyle Sandek died.

I've got those words filed away forever.

The kids were ruined. Nobody knew what to do. I didn't. He had been in my group. I'd seen him for hours every day after school for years.

I wanted to go to that memorial but I couldn't because of my job. I don't remember the rest of that day (except R., I remember R.). There were three separate memorials, because of scheduling issues and the fact that the school's church was not big enough to hold everyone who wanted to be there.

I went to the service held the next morning, meant for kids and their parents. I didn't know how much kleenex to take. I had never been to a funeral. So I took as many travel packs as my purse could hold. It turned out to be not enough.

I wore a gray dress. I wore black shoes. It was a beautiful chilly day, with fog.

I walked into the foyer of the church and there I saw J. Michael. Thirteen, stocky, and recently grown taller than me. I'd never seen his face like that. He was standing in the foyer handing out programs. He had been in my group for years too. He was Kyle's best friend.

I stood next to him so we could talk without having to look at each other. Like spies in a park. I asked him how he was holding up, and he said he was ok. I said it was good of him to do this thing for Kyle, the handing out of programs. It wasn't just a rundown of the service, you understand - it was a densely printed sheet of students' memories of Kyle, both sides of the paper, unedited, filled with typos and heartbreaking like nothing else in the world.

He said, "I knew it would be the hardest job. I knew somebody was gonna have to stand in the lobby and look at like five hundred people's faces when they came in to say goodbye to Kyle and that's the hardest thing I could think of and I didn't want anybody else to have to do it."

---

The service was simple and what was needed. A kind man spoke briefly and did not talk any garbage. He was near tears, we all were. The room was sad but under control.

Then a girl sang Amazing Grace, so slowly and so clear, and the room sat stunned and bruised. In that hush, before she stepped back from the microphone, she caught a ragged breath, the kind of thing you do when you're trying not to cry and you know that you will fail. The room broke. We all broke. It just wasn't fair. I've never seen that kind of mourning.

As we wept and wept J. Michael stepped up to the mike and said he would like to tell us why Kyle was his friend. He mentioned humor, and practical jokes, and laughing, over and over. He mentioned some in-jokes that were not for anybody but the two of them, and never would be. He said he would never recover from losing Kyle but he would never forget who he had been. We started to catch our breaths.

---

Afterwards, we walked across the foggy parking lot to the meeting hall. It was bright and warm in there, with hot coffee and fresh donuts. I had a hard time thinking of it as simply coffee and donuts. It was a kindness some unseen preparers had done for us, behind the scenes. I ate and drank and I felt myself getting better. I looked around and saw it happening to other people too. It happened by miniscule degrees but it happened. Was I standing in a Catholic church? Well, yes. So I surprised myself by finding a belief.

When J. Michael walked in looking weary and strong, like he'd been to war and survived, my impulse was to applaud, though I did not. I punched him gently on the shoulder, and he shook his head and hugged me.

the new rotten encyclopdia

I'm very good at retaining tremendous amounts of data that does do not matter at all, except in the most trivial short-term sense. My first job was as an office assistant (phone girl) in a chiropractor's office and I very quickly memorized all the patients, facts, phone numbers, and computer shit I was likely to need in an average day. When I did phones and data entry for the courier company, I could recognize hundreds of different voices by the way they said "hello" and I could tell you the zip code of any Atlanta street address, even OTP. At the bookstore I knew my books so well that if one was out of place I could tell from across the room - and could correct the error without checking the author's name. I liked to test myself with the shelves full of uneven, odd-sized books - I'd mix them up, then see if I could alphabetize them with my eyes shut. I could.

Most of the time I was not developing or demonstrating these skills to show off, except, yeah sometimes I was. In general though it was simply a measure of how lazy I am. When I'm busy it's a stupid waste of time to have to look up little bits of information - easier in the long run to memorize it.

So I was thinking that it's a shame I lost those catalogues of information. The chiropractor stuff I can do without (irritatingly, I still remember a few patient ID numbers from a dozen years ago), but as I still live in the same city, the courier map would be very helpful if it were still in my brain. The knowledge of books is what I miss the most. It's hard to believe that there was a time when I knew something about every new book, and knew the best-selling or most pertinent books on any topic. It was a weird feeling to look at shelves full of restaurant guides recently and not know where to start. I used to know. And a weirder feeling to know there's five years� worth of new children's books out there, and I haven't read one of them. An education I took for granted, while I was receiving it.

--

Carson asked me the other day, How do you remember everybody's name, even over the summer? And I realized, that's my new encyclopedic knowledge, not that I want it anymore. I wanted to tell her, Kiddo, you have no idea. Not only do I know the first, last, and sometimes middle name of the 60-ish kids enrolled in the after-school program this year, but I know another sixty who drop in once or twice a month, plus everybody who graduated, moved, or died. I know who was is by the nanny and who by TV. I know who's medicated for ADD (easy: almost freaking everybody), who has been diagnosed with manic or clinical depression (I have my doubts about the ones under 5), who eats McDonald's every night, which kindergartner is allowed to swear at his parents, who has Tourette's (not the same kid), whose mother is an alcoholic (almost freaking everybody). I know whose mom is so hammered every day of her life that she doesn't even try to hide it from her kids, and who once packed her daughter's lunch with nothing but a bag of chocolate chips. I know whose parents love them and I know who doesn't get hugged at home, ever.

How am I supposed to shake that?

a secret, already

A new kid, eleven, has settled in already, found friends, and latched firmly onto me, which I'm not sure about yet. She's sweet but needy but that's for good reasons and I imagine it will all even out in time. In the meantime, we tell each other the goriest nastiest e.r. stories.

When we run out, or seem to, she goes quiet and studies my face for a minute, real serious. (a kid ever do that to you? it's intense) She says, I'll tell you something, a secret. We go off a little ways so nobody else can hear. She says, matter-of-fact, My mom couldn't have a baby so I'm adopted. And I got to see the coolest thing about it.

When they were trying to figure out why she couldn't get pregnant they stuck a tube in her stomach with a little camera on the end. They poked it all around and they never did find anything wrong, everything looked normal, it was just a mystery. They said nothing was wrong with my dad either, just, something wouldn't let them have a baby so they had to adopt a baby and that�s how they got me.

The really nice part about this, other than the frank honesty she's obviously been raised with, is the fact that the family has a copy of the video of her mom's guts, and sometimes they watch it together. It struck me that that's as good as any childbirth video: the story of who her parents were right before they had a baby, and what lengths they were willing to go to to get her.

tiger nixon jackasses

I was wrong, there is a Gabby. A worse opposite I couldn’t have imagined. This one is a straight-up brat, which is not a word I use lightly or often. She cries for no reason, cries more when she sees this behavior will get her more attention, cries so much more when we figure out what she’s up to and leave her to her own wailing. We’re not unkind. Everybody tries everything - comfort, rocking, distraction, logic. This Gabby simply does not have any interest in cheering up, so what else can you do but put her in a chair off to the side and say Ok, when you feel like having fun, wipe your nose and join us. She’s not used to being ignored. The tears run out pretty quick and then she’s just a snot rat shrieking and moaning for hours, literally hours. I want your mommy too, jackass.

Later I find out the scoop: Gabby used to go to a very frilly fancy private preschool. She decided she didn’t like her teacher, so her mom launched a massive attempt to get the teacher fired. Based on nothing, no allegations of abuse or improper conduct. Just, my three-year-old doesn’t like you, I get everything I want, and I want you fired. It didn’t happen, of course, to the mother’s fury. As the school was a small one, they only had the one preschool teacher and therefore Gabby wasn’t taken out of her class - she stayed with the teacher she didn’t like, and within a few weeks had gotten used to the new environment and said she loved her teacher. Did the mom ever apologize to the teacher? Of course not, she continued with her angry plan of transferring the kid to a new school, taking her away from the teacher she now loved. Brilliant!

Because of this ridiculous backstory, which I know is true, we have to keep a Gabby log. I imagine it is going to read like, 2:30 Gabby cried for no fucking reason and I tried everything in my power to calm her down, 3:00 she is still crying and says her mom will make me sorry.

So the mom comes to pick her up and bursts into the building yelling I CAN’T FIND MY DAUGHTER WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER!? Um, a clue: she’s not in the lobby. I direct her to the room with actual children in it and then something very interesting happens. Because of angles and obstacles, I can see Gabby, who is weeping but silent, and her mother cannot. Yet she wheels on me, all up in my face demanding to know why her daughter is crying. Interesting. I let her scream all she wants and then when she has howled WHY IS SHE CRYING about seventeen times I say, “You tell me,” except then I walk away. Because what the fuck do I care. If you actually cared so much about your child’s supposed misery wouldn’t you be hugging her by now?

Not really looking forward to this particular endless drama. And it sucks too much to be talking about a Gabby who is this awful. Maybe I’ll call this one Eunice or something uglier.

---

Ava bites me all over with a lamb. The lamb says I taste like bacon strips. A coworker grabs the lamb, holds it so it looks like it’s missing a leg and says Oh no Ava I broke your lamb! This has been a running joke ever since he really did snap a Barbie in half last year. She isn’t bothered, she thinks it’s hilarious and she wants to fake break its other leg. Then she says Give me an apple! ... in Lebanese.

---

First lentil soup, then pesto pasta, I keep eating things that horrify the kids (mostly the boys). So now I have a rep for eating mostly green things that stink. I feel an obligation to keep that going. I am a vegetarian so it will not be hard.

---

I meet two four-year-olds, a Dixon and a Buckley. Which is the girl and which is the boy, and does that matter? What horrible people would pick names that are not only unwieldy and weird but also begging to be mutated into vulgarities. To make it worse, Buckley has enormous jutting front teeth. She seems like a sweet kid so far; it’s a shame. I can’t think of a way to better her name, outside of Buck, which she doesn’t like. Dixon has agreed to be called Nixon, Tyler lets me call her Tiger, and Janet will only answer to Roberta.

---

An entertaining mixup where the Czech is talking about Polly Pockets (a brand of tiny doll) and how she brought some for the children to play with. How much fun the keeds haf, play on floor, wit polly pockets, dress them up, all day! The new co-worker has not learned to interpret her accent and weird wording, and I can tell by his face he’s mis-heard something. When I check with him later, he thinks she said Forty Buckets.

---

I’m drinking from a travel mug that says SUBARU. A seven-year-old kid wants to know why. I tell him my boyfriend just bought a Subaru and the car people gave us mugs. He nods and says, We just bought a Porsche. It’s a convertible. He pauses, checks my face, then adds, to make sure I know, That’s better than a Subaru.

it's only me

A cicada husk stuck to a brick wall, half a dozen kids arguing over what it is. It’s a bug, it’s a sick bug, it’s a bug shell, the bug is asleep. Morgan, ten, leans against the fence with me and watches them squabble. They’re all wrong, she says.

Yeah?

Yeah. That’s a costume for some fly. Some little fly’s gonna find that and put it on and go around scaring the crap out of all his buddies and then when they say AAAA he’s gonna take it off and say No don’t be scared, it’s only me, Alfredo.