Records in the Basement (continued)
by Recording Doug
Children liked the game of pretending to be done harm, though not being the ones to whom the pretense was administered, since a certain shame still attached itself to the one thus chosen to suffer such painless hurt with sixty eyes (fifty nine, actually, since Robbie’s one eye went sideways) watching the meting out, excitement written on their pupils.
Robbie Battermann rode his trike to grade six in the seasonable times of the year, the red and white fluttering plastic tassels at the ends of the black handles visible before he was, since his height no one knew but guessed to be under three feet. He had a big trike welded up for him by his uncle Leonard, a shop foreman of great height and width, and it operated by push buttons and gears so he actually did not have to sit on the seat but simply stand on the back foot rest and operate the vehicle electrically. It was gas powered and could reach 50 miles an hour. Robbie had once passed the principal on a gravel country road and waved to boot. The man had almost hit the ditch. The principal drove very cautiously at all times.
The linoleum tile factory over the back alley smelled of glue when the wind blew from the south and Sandra had to call her mother to close the basement windows. Her new bedroom and rec room were down there and these accommodations entirely belonged to her. No brothers or sisters had come along with whom to learn how to share. Maternal difficulties aside, Sandra quite liked living below the level of the earth. She never went out. She watched television a great deal and her parents came downstairs if they wished anything of her. One day a group of her-age pupils dropped by to visit her and they all sat around Monopoly for a while as their mother had requested, and then turned to the television and watched it quietly till one by one they said they had to go home for supper.
Church was the problem. It wasted half the special day. That was the only day Sandra had when she could get out with just her family. Her father was a weakling, a man of 67 pounds and 6‘4“ tall. He suffered inevitably each day from some affliction of the joints and muscles. Though he worked at jobs that required no lifting or carrying, he still could not go a week without some terrible complaint that put him down on the couch for the entire evening, or longer. Her mother might have been more able, but how is a woman alone supposed to do what three men cannot? Even with many votives. Prayer doesn’t lift weights.
Chelsea Robbins could not have been more than twelve the first time she had to make a grown-up decision. They—Chelsea, Bobright, Simelton, Danny, Beatrice and Singing Tim—had each received from their respective parent’s permission to sleep in a tent alone, each in their own backyard. Instead, they had all slipped over to Joshie’s back forty in the cowpasture where he had his 12 x 12 canvas tent set up. This after their parents had separately checked to assure themselves each of their kid’s actual presence, of his actual thereness, asleep and safe. Sandra had later heard that they had all played games and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. One game was Truth or Dare. Someone at one point dared Chelsea and Beatrice to kiss. No one seemed to recall if they actually had. After all, there were no electric bulbs in the tent, only candlelight.
A light shone on the records and the cardboard covers looked clean and new in it. Even the ragged edges took on a wholeness and a fine appearance in this light through the basement window. Sandra felt grateful that her parents had hired the delivery truck and the men for this Saturday. This outfit typically did not do moving on the weekends, but since her father had offered them four hundred extra to pick up and deliver, they had accepted and here she was at grandma’s house for the first time that she could recall.
She felt suddenly happy. More happy than she could remember being before. She sang another song along with the record. “She wore an itsy-bitsy . . . .” And then another, “They did the mash, they did the monster mash . . . .” She moved the catheter a little because she was sitting on it. Going would be difficult through a squeezed tube. And she giggled, thinking about it bulging and breaking. It was not that bad, she thought. Nothing was that bad. Her special lifting chair was folded up at the wall for when the men came. They did not know how to lift 600 pound people without levers and all sorts of cranes. This first time they would assist in lifting her and her chair back up through the hole grandpa had cut in the living room floor above the rec room. That’s where she had to come down and that’s where she stayed sitting till need would drive a group of adults to hurry toward her to assist her. Her father, as mentioned, was not one of the lifters, not one of the helpers. He just called out instructions and cautions in a weak, excited voice.
by Recording Doug
Children liked the game of pretending to be done harm, though not being the ones to whom the pretense was administered, since a certain shame still attached itself to the one thus chosen to suffer such painless hurt with sixty eyes (fifty nine, actually, since Robbie’s one eye went sideways) watching the meting out, excitement written on their pupils.
Robbie Battermann rode his trike to grade six in the seasonable times of the year, the red and white fluttering plastic tassels at the ends of the black handles visible before he was, since his height no one knew but guessed to be under three feet. He had a big trike welded up for him by his uncle Leonard, a shop foreman of great height and width, and it operated by push buttons and gears so he actually did not have to sit on the seat but simply stand on the back foot rest and operate the vehicle electrically. It was gas powered and could reach 50 miles an hour. Robbie had once passed the principal on a gravel country road and waved to boot. The man had almost hit the ditch. The principal drove very cautiously at all times.
The linoleum tile factory over the back alley smelled of glue when the wind blew from the south and Sandra had to call her mother to close the basement windows. Her new bedroom and rec room were down there and these accommodations entirely belonged to her. No brothers or sisters had come along with whom to learn how to share. Maternal difficulties aside, Sandra quite liked living below the level of the earth. She never went out. She watched television a great deal and her parents came downstairs if they wished anything of her. One day a group of her-age pupils dropped by to visit her and they all sat around Monopoly for a while as their mother had requested, and then turned to the television and watched it quietly till one by one they said they had to go home for supper.
Church was the problem. It wasted half the special day. That was the only day Sandra had when she could get out with just her family. Her father was a weakling, a man of 67 pounds and 6‘4“ tall. He suffered inevitably each day from some affliction of the joints and muscles. Though he worked at jobs that required no lifting or carrying, he still could not go a week without some terrible complaint that put him down on the couch for the entire evening, or longer. Her mother might have been more able, but how is a woman alone supposed to do what three men cannot? Even with many votives. Prayer doesn’t lift weights.
Chelsea Robbins could not have been more than twelve the first time she had to make a grown-up decision. They—Chelsea, Bobright, Simelton, Danny, Beatrice and Singing Tim—had each received from their respective parent’s permission to sleep in a tent alone, each in their own backyard. Instead, they had all slipped over to Joshie’s back forty in the cowpasture where he had his 12 x 12 canvas tent set up. This after their parents had separately checked to assure themselves each of their kid’s actual presence, of his actual thereness, asleep and safe. Sandra had later heard that they had all played games and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. One game was Truth or Dare. Someone at one point dared Chelsea and Beatrice to kiss. No one seemed to recall if they actually had. After all, there were no electric bulbs in the tent, only candlelight.
A light shone on the records and the cardboard covers looked clean and new in it. Even the ragged edges took on a wholeness and a fine appearance in this light through the basement window. Sandra felt grateful that her parents had hired the delivery truck and the men for this Saturday. This outfit typically did not do moving on the weekends, but since her father had offered them four hundred extra to pick up and deliver, they had accepted and here she was at grandma’s house for the first time that she could recall.
She felt suddenly happy. More happy than she could remember being before. She sang another song along with the record. “She wore an itsy-bitsy . . . .” And then another, “They did the mash, they did the monster mash . . . .” She moved the catheter a little because she was sitting on it. Going would be difficult through a squeezed tube. And she giggled, thinking about it bulging and breaking. It was not that bad, she thought. Nothing was that bad. Her special lifting chair was folded up at the wall for when the men came. They did not know how to lift 600 pound people without levers and all sorts of cranes. This first time they would assist in lifting her and her chair back up through the hole grandpa had cut in the living room floor above the rec room. That’s where she had to come down and that’s where she stayed sitting till need would drive a group of adults to hurry toward her to assist her. Her father, as mentioned, was not one of the lifters, not one of the helpers. He just called out instructions and cautions in a weak, excited voice.
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