DIALING FOR DOLLARS

I have never seen my parents together; at least I don’t remember seeing them together.  They are divorced.  I don’t see my mom much.  She works all day to pay the rent.  Sometimes she works on the weekends.  Sometimes she is here with me, and sometimes she is out on a date.  I hardly see her.  I spend my time around people I don’t know.  I sit in someone’s house who I don’t know and watch “Dialing for Dollars.”  They have pretty girls on the show who call people.  If your phone rings and it’s one of them, they give you a bunch of money.  I sit next to the phone, waiting, waiting.  They will call me.  I know they will, soon.  Then I’m going to take the money I win and put it in the bank so my mom can stay home.

THE TABLE CLOTH

          I wish there were a family around this table.  I sit at our round, wood table and imagine people eating.  They talk, they laugh, and they enjoy each other.  There is lots of food.  And the kid’s get second helpings.  They get chocolate cake for dessert.  My mouth waters as I imagine this family of four all easing their forks into their cakes at the same time, then placing the pieces of cake on their tongues and letting them melt in their mouths.  I sit at an empty table and dream.  I sit at an empty table with an empty stomach and dream. “This is almost what it would be like,” I say to myself as I sit at the table, now set for the family of four.  A white table cloth laid down with knives, spoons, forks, plates and glasses all arranged neatly.  I imagine the food.  I sit in each chair.  I play the part of the dad.  “Use your fork, not your hands!”  I play the part of the mom.  “Eat all your peas or you won’t get any dessert!”  I play the part of one of the sons.  “I hate peas,” I whisper under my breath.  I sit in another chair and kick at the air.  “Ouch!”  Says my make-believe brother.  I stand at the end of the table.  I grab at the white table cloth.  The family is gone; there’s no food here.  There never was.  There’s no family here.  There never is.  I pull hard.  Glasses, plates, forks, spoons, knives, a white table cloth.  They all come crashing to the floor.  I hold on tight to the end of the cloth.  I run down the hall, dragging it behind me.  I stop.  The house is quiet.  No one home.  No one but me.  No family.  I clutch my white cloth and sink into the corner and cry.  I reach out at the emptiness in front of me.  There’s no one there.  I here my voice break the silence.  “Someone hug me, please!”  I lie down on the floor and cover myself with the white table cloth.  I dream of chocolate cake.  I dream of being told to eat my peas.  I dream of having a brother to kick.  I dream of falling asleep.

CHATTER

This has never happened before.  My mom and I are at a meeting.  She is supposed to help feed kids from some home.  The kids don’t have moms.  There are some women from the home in the room with us.  They are figuring out the money.

“The cheese sandwiches were under-budgeted,” says the fat one in the corner.  “I had to spend more than what was allotted,” she goes on to say.  By that I think she means that she had to spend more than they gave her. 

“How much came out of your pocket?” asks a skinny lady who is sitting by the door. 

“Well,” answers the fat one, “sixty-eight cents!”   She continues, “Now I know that is not a lot, but I’m on a fixed income, and everything adds up, you know!  I don’t have extra for frivolities!”  That’s not a frivolity, I think to myself.  She is helping kids who don’t have moms.  Is sixty-eight cents too much?  I would give her the money if I had my piggy bank with me.  Another skinny lady, this one standing next to a counter piled high with food, speaks up.  She apologizes for the “miscalculation” in the budget.  I think I know what that means.  I think she is saying she is sorry that the fat one had to pay the sixty-eight cents.  I’m not.  I think she should shut-up.  I don’t see how sixty-eight cents can be too much.  My mom tries to say something but just gets out an “ugh.” A lady wearing a round blonde wig cuts her off. 

“We need to get those sandwiches to the park.” 

“Now is that the park with the community center in the middle?” the fat lady asks. 

“It’s the one with the baseball field,” replies the lady with the wig. 

“I don’t know that one,” says the fat lady. 

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Copyright 2006 Chris Plante.  All rights reserved.

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