Movie madness
Remember that nifty spherical puzzle I put together while Robyn was in Maine? I’m selling it on eBay now.
Many thanks to reader Maggie who sent me 24 Declassified: Operation Hell Gate
It’s also pretty decent, if you’re a fan of the show. There are a few technical errors, in that the book takes place around 1996 and today’s technology (people with MP3 players, all TVs are high-def, etc.) is prevalent, but that stuff is easily overlooked.
Good stuff, like I said, if you’re a fan. Of course, it’s easily discernable as fiction, as this Jack Bauer both eats and goes to the bathroom.
(Side note on last night’s 24 premiere: HOLY FUCKING SHIT for the first 10 minutes.)
I stood on the dropcloth, rolling blue paint onto the wall and contemplating whether it would be possible to make a movie worse than Transporter 2. A soft knock came at the door.
“Yes?” I called.
The door opened a crack, and the spud peeked in. “I’m ready,” she said.
I’d sent her off to shower a half hour earlier, so she could run an errand for me. Having a third driver in the house, especially one you can boss around, is the bomb. I put the roller in the paint tray, because I can’t talk without waving my arms around like some sort of clumsy flightless bird and didn’t want to sling paint all over the place.
“I need you to go to the movie store and take back the two movies downstairs by the door, and whatever Smallville DVDs you’re finished with.”
I’m still watching Smallville (shut up), and when I get through a disc I hand it off to the spud so she can watch it.
“Okay.” She closed the door and I heard her clomp down the stairs. As I bent to pick up the roller, a thought occurred: I have tomorrow off, for MLK Day. I left the room, fighting my way through the flock of curious cats gathered at the door, and went downstairs.
“While you’re at the movie store,” I said to the spud when I got to the den, “pick up Smallville season 3, disc 3 for me.”
“Okay.”
I picked up my wallet and took out my movie store membership card.
“That’s season 3, disc 3,” I said. “Look at the box and make sure you get the right one. Sometimes they put the wrong box behind the display box. Season 3, disc 3.”
“Okay,” she said, and rolled her eyes.
I handed her four dollars and her allowance.
“Don’t forget: that’s season 3, disc 3.”
After several years of living with one, I find that teenagers do best when you repeat simple directions three or four times, as their heads are so full from knowing everything that once usually isn’t enough.
Later, as I worked on the fourth wall of the bedroom, I heard the garage door rumble up. Two or three minutes passed, and a second knock came.
“Yes?” I said.
“The movie was four eleven, not four dollars,” the spud said through the door.
This time I was the eye-roller.
“Okay, I’ll get you eleven cents when I finish painting.”
“That’s okay.”
I finished the room and went downstairs to check the status of all the things we had listed on eBay, because OCD, it makes you do shit like that. The spud came down to leave for the mall (her home away from home) and stopped in the computer room. She dropped a bunch of change in Robyn’s change cup, then laid four dollars on my desk.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“It’s yours. The movie was more than four dollars.”
In my head, my inner Tim Allen woke up.
“Right,” I said. “So why are you giving this back to me?”
“Because it wasn’t enough to pay for the movie.”
I realized she’d probably just put eighty-nine cents in Robyn’s change cup.
“Oh, so you want a five?” I asked.
She looked at me, confused, and said no.
“Then what’s the money for?” I asked again.
“Because that wasn’t enough.” She looked at me as though I might be the stupidest person she’d ever seen. “I had to use my money to pay for it.”
I tried, in vain, to comprehend what was going on. I picked up the four dollars.
“So why are you giving me my money back?”
“Because it wasn’t enough,” she said. You dumbass, her look said. “That’s why I had to pay for it.”
I looked at Robyn, who was trying not to laugh, then back at the spud.
“Are you high?” I asked.
“No.”
“Are you retarded?”
“No,” she said, giggling like a…well, you know.
I was tempted to keep the four dollars, since we’ll probably need it to help pay for the assisted-living home she’ll have to be in when she’s old enough to move out, but pushed it into her hand.
“My mistake,” I said. “Next time I’ll make sure and give you more money so you don’t have to pay for it with yours.”
Really. What else could I say?
The bedroom, post repaint.
