he felt the need to make at that particular moment. “What is it?” I said irritably.
He admitted that while he was waiting for Taz to come home with the key he found a bobby pin on the floor of the hallway and shoved it in the door lock, thinking he could jimmy it open like they do in the movies.
But the bobby pin broke off. He opened his fist to show me the seven- eighths of the pin he was still holding. The little rubber tip was gone. Gone inside the lock. And that's why nobody's keys were working.
I paid the babysitter and sent her home. A lotta good she did me today. I could have yelled at her, and said, “OK, you were doing what exactly while Sport was sticking a bobby pin in the lock?” but there would just be no point. She was a teenager, too, a little older than Taz, and just about as useless.
There's a locksmith three blocks from our house. I ran down and caught the guy before he closed for the night. He dispatched someone to meet me at home, and I raced back.
The locksmith arrived, fidgeted with his tools and the lock for a few minutes, and, with a long, pincer- type thingie, he extracted the missing piece of the bobby pin from deep inside the lock mechanism.
I tried my key. It worked just fine.
The locksmith then handed me a bill for
$93.
I asked the locksmith if he would like to adopt a child named Sport.
He politely declined.
“How about the other one,” I said, pointing to Taz. “He's big enough that maybe you could put him to work. In fact, I'll pay you to take him.”
Taz got a pained look on his face. “What did I do? I didn't put the bobby pin in the lock!”
“No, but if you hadn't lost your keys and taken Sport's this morning, this wouldn't have happened,” I barked. “And furthermore, if you'd come right home when I first called you to let him in, instead of waiting until Dad yelled at you to do it, Sport might never have tried the bobby pin.”
“That is so unfair!” he said.
The locksmith cleared his throat. “Cash, credit, or personal check,” he said.
I sighed and got my checkbook, handed over the money, and started making dinner, a lovely rendition of frozen ravioli with sauce from a jar, with a healthy salad on the side that I assumed no one but me would touch. The entire time I made dinner, I was screaming my head off at my children.
At one point, Taz interrupted me to demand $25 of his bar mitzvah money to go buy a DVD.
The big bash had been a month earlier, and most of the money he'd received as gifts had gone into the bank.I'd told him at the time that he would get a little bit of it as play money, but first he'd have to write thank- you notes.
“You don't get any money until the thank- you notes are done,” I reminded him.
The DVD store closed at 7:30 p.m. It was then 6:10 p.m. He sat down with a pen and a stack of paper and wrote twenty thank- you notes in a half hour. He asked for the $25 again and promised to do the rest of the notes— another twenty or so— upon his return from the store. I demanded his cell phone as collateral. He agreed and handed it over.
The ravioli was done. I served dinner. I was still angry about the key, the lock, and the bill from the locksmith, so every three or four minutes or so, I would scream something at the top of my lungs like “You know, I work hard all day and I shouldn't have to come home to this nonsense!”
Sport, I felt, was responding appropriately, given his guilt. Basically, he wept quietly nonstop, and was looking suicidal. Unlike Taz, he apparently was still young enough that his conscience had not been obliterated by the hormones of puberty. He also refused to eat dinner.
Taz, on the other hand, ate a good portion of the ravioli, obviously untroubled by all that had transpired. Then he got up and headed to the DVD store, where he said he intended to buy a copy of
Terminator 2: Judgment Day.
I walked down the hallway to his room. The sweaterhe'd been wearing the day before was on the floor. I picked it
He admitted that while he was waiting for Taz to come home with the key he found a bobby pin on the floor of the hallway and shoved it in the door lock, thinking he could jimmy it open like they do in the movies.
But the bobby pin broke off. He opened his fist to show me the seven- eighths of the pin he was still holding. The little rubber tip was gone. Gone inside the lock. And that's why nobody's keys were working.
I paid the babysitter and sent her home. A lotta good she did me today. I could have yelled at her, and said, “OK, you were doing what exactly while Sport was sticking a bobby pin in the lock?” but there would just be no point. She was a teenager, too, a little older than Taz, and just about as useless.
There's a locksmith three blocks from our house. I ran down and caught the guy before he closed for the night. He dispatched someone to meet me at home, and I raced back.
The locksmith arrived, fidgeted with his tools and the lock for a few minutes, and, with a long, pincer- type thingie, he extracted the missing piece of the bobby pin from deep inside the lock mechanism.
I tried my key. It worked just fine.
The locksmith then handed me a bill for
$93.
I asked the locksmith if he would like to adopt a child named Sport.
He politely declined.
“How about the other one,” I said, pointing to Taz. “He's big enough that maybe you could put him to work. In fact, I'll pay you to take him.”
Taz got a pained look on his face. “What did I do? I didn't put the bobby pin in the lock!”
“No, but if you hadn't lost your keys and taken Sport's this morning, this wouldn't have happened,” I barked. “And furthermore, if you'd come right home when I first called you to let him in, instead of waiting until Dad yelled at you to do it, Sport might never have tried the bobby pin.”
“That is so unfair!” he said.
The locksmith cleared his throat. “Cash, credit, or personal check,” he said.
I sighed and got my checkbook, handed over the money, and started making dinner, a lovely rendition of frozen ravioli with sauce from a jar, with a healthy salad on the side that I assumed no one but me would touch. The entire time I made dinner, I was screaming my head off at my children.
At one point, Taz interrupted me to demand $25 of his bar mitzvah money to go buy a DVD.
The big bash had been a month earlier, and most of the money he'd received as gifts had gone into the bank.I'd told him at the time that he would get a little bit of it as play money, but first he'd have to write thank- you notes.
“You don't get any money until the thank- you notes are done,” I reminded him.
The DVD store closed at 7:30 p.m. It was then 6:10 p.m. He sat down with a pen and a stack of paper and wrote twenty thank- you notes in a half hour. He asked for the $25 again and promised to do the rest of the notes— another twenty or so— upon his return from the store. I demanded his cell phone as collateral. He agreed and handed it over.
The ravioli was done. I served dinner. I was still angry about the key, the lock, and the bill from the locksmith, so every three or four minutes or so, I would scream something at the top of my lungs like “You know, I work hard all day and I shouldn't have to come home to this nonsense!”
Sport, I felt, was responding appropriately, given his guilt. Basically, he wept quietly nonstop, and was looking suicidal. Unlike Taz, he apparently was still young enough that his conscience had not been obliterated by the hormones of puberty. He also refused to eat dinner.
Taz, on the other hand, ate a good portion of the ravioli, obviously untroubled by all that had transpired. Then he got up and headed to the DVD store, where he said he intended to buy a copy of
Terminator 2: Judgment Day.
I walked down the hallway to his room. The sweaterhe'd been wearing the day before was on the floor. I picked it
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