Family

“Brenda, this obsession of yours has gotten way out of control.” Herbert Weinstock said to his wife. He was standing in his living room with his briefcase, ready to head out to work. He looked about the room with a combination of disgust and frustration.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herb,” she replied.

“Jesus, Brenda. You’ve gotta be kidding me! It’s this obsession you have with collecting all this Barbie crap! For God’s sake! You’re fifty-seven years old. Why the hell are you still collecting these ridiculous dolls?”

Herbert pointed to the hundreds of boxed Barbie dolls that lined the shelves on almost every wall. He had known his wife collected everything Barbie-related when he married her thirty-five years earlier, but back then, her collection had been relegated to a small extra bedroom in a seldom-used area of the house. Now, Barbie paraphernalia was found in abundance in every room.

Brenda replied, “You just don’t understand Herb. You never understood. The world of Barbie isn’t simply about collecting dolls; it’s so much more than that. The thing about Barbie is it’s a… well, I suppose it’s a lifestyle.”

“Lifestyle?” Herb shouted, “More like a cult of mindless idol-worshiping minions. That’s it! It’s idolatry; that’s what it is. Brenda, you’ve become an idol-worshipping pagan!”

A friend of mine named Hal Pressman called and said, “Hey, Walt! You gotta come over here and see this!” He hung up with a chuckle, not even giving me a chance to say I was working in the garden with Marci.

She noticed the perturbed expression on my face.

“Who was that?” She asked, rising from the ground and dusting dirt from her bare knees.

“Hal,” I rolled my eyes, put my phone back in my jean pocket.

“Good grief,” Marci said, exasperated. “What does he want?”

“He wants me to come over to his cottage.”

“You were just there yesterday.” Fuming, Marci added, “Watching Porky Pig cartoons for twelve hours, I might add.”

“Popeye,” I corrected her.

“What’s the difference?”

There was no arguing a point when a person has no interest in the subject of their outrage.

Marci continued. “When the University job starts you won’t have as much time for Hal. Because what little time you will have will belong to me.”

“I know,” I whined.

Marci had hammered home that statement since Coleman University hired me to teach Film studies last month.

“Why is he obsessed over cartoons?”

“Animation,” I corrected.

“Whatever it’s called, Walter, a grown man shouldn’t be watching that stuff as much as he does.”

I shrugged. “He’s writing a book.”

“So he says. I think he’s just lazy. Weird to quit a good job managing one of the biggest resorts in the country,” Marci said. “He does know you have a wife, doesn’t he?”

“Marci, what can I do?”

“You can say no. That you are spending the day with your beautiful, charming wife.”

“I could.”

Marci sighed, rubbed my back affectionately.

“But you won’t.”

I was out behind the shed watering the tomatoes and the eggplant when I heard Charlie calling for me.

“Dad! Dad! Come quick!”

Well, I didn’t go there quick. I didn’t even move. I was tired. Dog tired, actually, after working at the plant all day spray painting the doors to Dodge trucks and then off to work at the feed and seed store at 4pm and just got home a half hour ago at 7:45…I was done running for people.

Charlie came running to the garden screaming: “Dad! There’s a hole in the ground! Like in the movies! The ground is moving! The ground is moving!”

I swiveled around slowly to face him, the water hose blasting the plants, the lawn chair, and finally Charlie. He laughed as he tried to defend himself from the spraying water, yelling for me to cut it out. I dropped the hose and asked him what was so important he had to interrupt the only enjoyment I get the entire day.

His response: “The earth might swallow all of us up!”

I blinked.

“Including your mother?”

“Dad! Yeah!”

“Even Gosomer?” He was our Blue tick hound who had little patience for squirrels, passing cars and generally anyone walking up the drive, including me.

“I said everybody, damn it!” Charlie immediately looked down at the ground and apologized.

“Alright,” I said, removing my hands from my waist. “I’ll look at your moving earth, Charlie Cole, if it will humor you.”

“Dad,” Charlie said with a scoff added at the end. “I wish you’d stop saying if it will humor me, usually when I’m serious nothing will make me laugh.”

Huh. I had to smile at that. Barely twelve and the boy already has his mother’s biting wit.

“Okay, okay. Where’s the hole.”