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    One Hundred Twenty Eight

    by , 12-02-2020 at 07:02 PM (58 Views)
    In which I have a tiny man in a matchbox...

    I'm screwing a hanging hook into the dry wall. I miss the stud so the hook falls out, leaving a dusty hole in the wall. A beam of light shines through, and I put my eye up to the hole to peer in. I see a man running desperately towards me as a large orb of light moves across the sky chasing him, like the plane after Cary Grant in North By Northwest. I cup my palm beneath the hole and the man leaps into it. I slam my other hand against the hole, blocking the orb. The tiny man is safe!

    I place him in a matchbox with some tissue paper and bread crumbs. I bend down close to him to hear his story, but his voice is too small. I speak to him, but the sound waves blow him backwards off his feet. He puts his hands over his ears and doubles over in pain. I must figure out how to feed him, water him, keep him warm, communicate with him. Suddenly it all seems like such a chore. I consider squishing him like an ant and then remind myself that though he's ant-sized, he's still actually a human being. What a burden!

    In which I have a new job as a nanny...

    I'm wearing baggy pants. The kids are elementary aged and we are in a large stylish upper middle class house. They are in a basement playroom, chasing each another around a faux bamboo bar that looks like it hasn't been used in years for anything other than storing Amazon boxes. I'm bored with the game but attempting to appear engaged. I'm aware of the nanny cams watching me. I must seem patient and friendly.

    My pants keep falling down. I hide behind the bar out of sight of the camera and pull them up. I try to tuck them into my underwear to make them stay. Every time I take a step, they fall again. I reach for a blanket on the play room couch and wrap it around my body like it's a toga. My pants fall to my ankles, but I'm covered now in the blanket. The kids' mom comes down the stairs and sees me. "We're playing frat house," I tell her. She disapproves. But here we are, basement bar, bratty kids, toga...

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