Good Kid Does Good

I’m not running for president, so I’m not going to brag about how rough I had it growing up. But to set the scene I have to tell you I spent the first few years of my life in a small house. It was first built as a garage for a much larger house, before the original owner, presumably a man, ran out of money. To solve the problem he then built a smaller garage next to it, I guess so it would look bigger? He probably read one of those articles I’m always reading about how to make your tiny apartment feel larger. (The answer is MIRRORS!)

This garage-turned-house was in Flat Rock, Michigan, a part of the state typically referred to as “downriver.” Whatever you’re thinking right now about downriver, you’re right.

Eventually, my parents bought it. We moved out of there when I was 5, so I don’t remember a ton about the place, except a lot of wood paneling and that kind of burnt orange you don’t see anymore except for at the University of Texas. We also had those owl paintings, (you know the ones) as well as a healthy bit of Catholic imagery: your rosaries, your crucifixes and of course, your sexy Jesus painting (I KNOW you know that one).

So there we were, just me, my parents, and hot Jesus living a modest, cozy, downriver life, my younger brother still just a glimmer in someone’s eye. The crucifixes never fell off the walls, and the rosaries never burnt our hands. The owls’ eyes never moved, and I never felt “a presence.” The place generally had good vibes, and I felt safe there.

I was one of those “good kids.” And yes, this time I am bragging. I lived for the approval of adults, and I was good at it. Later I would get good grades because it made adults happy. I’ve always been quiet and patient and “mature for my age.” Never prone to emotional outbursts or “making a scene.” What can I say, I live to please.

Because of this, my parents were able to give me VERY specific instructions, and leave me to my own devices. Most notably they would do this when Uncle Dave would come over to drink beers and play ping-pong in the detached garage. They’d set me up in the living room, plopped into the lay-z-boy, and say “Stay RIGHT here.” Then they’d put on one of the VHS tapes onto which my grandma had taped not just one, but TWO movies from HBO. And I’d sit there RIGHT THERE. There, in the big lay-z-boy with my dad’s butt print on it, while they headed next door to “play pong.”

I don’t have kids of my own, but the thought of propping up a 4-year old with a Rescuers / Rescuers Down Under Double Feature while I’m drinking beers one full brick-and-mortar structure away frankly... feels extremely onbrand for me. I truly am my parents’ daughter.

The night in question was a Pong Night at the garage-house. It was one of those hot summer nights where it’s still 90 degrees and humid after the sun sets. You KNOW that house didn’t have air conditioning so every window and door was open, even the front door.

Did anyone else grow up in a house where no one was allowed to use the front door, because it opened straight onto precious taupe living room carpet? All comings and goings happened from the back door, and the front door was used strictly for ventilation. 

Anyway, the VHS in question that night was one of grandma’s classic double features: Gremlins 2 and Witches. These were two favorites of 5-year old Carrie.

There I was. Sitting RIGHT THERE. Probably just getting to the point where the little boy’s diabetic grandma collapses because a witch put sugar in her coffee when I see it. Or rather, I see him. 

A man is outside, peering through the window. He’s wearing a ski mask. He’s An Actual Man in a Ski Mask. 

My stomach drops, I freeze.

He disappears from the window and reappears at the screen door. Now I can see all of him: he’s stocky, with a bit of a beer gut, and wearing a navy blue sweatshirt, dark pants, and yes, a black ski mask. He’s just feet away from me now, and he seems to be sizing up the situation, eyeing the room, looking at the TV. Looking for adults maybe? He finally looks right at me, and when he does, he silently puts his finger up to his mouth. He doesn’t make a sound but even a 4 year old knows what that means. Shhhh. I’m petrified and I don’t know what to do.

But I DO. Like any child of the 80’s, I was trained for this. I slink, and I do mean slink, out of the lay-z-boy, drop to the floor, and army crawl behind the couch. Because the end table next to the couch is where the cordless phone sits. He’s trying the door handle now, first rattling it a little, then harder and louder. I know then have to do that thing everyone’s been telling me about. I have to dial 911.

I have the huge cordless phone in my little hand just about to dial when I hear something else. Not the door rattling. Clapping. Coming towards me from the back door. My mom and my uncle are walking in, through the burnt orange kitchen, past the owls, past that downright smoldering JC, and… they’re clapping. 

I don’t even register what they’re saying at first, even though it’s one of my favorite things to hear:

“Good job.” 

I turn back to the man at the door. He’s taking off the ski mask. He’s my dad. Wearing my dad’s blue sweatshirt, carrying my dad’s beer belly. The Man in the Ski Mask is My Dad. They were testing me.

“You did everything right,” they’re all saying. “Dial 911, that’s what you do.”

My dad starts laughing. Everyone is telling me how good I did as they laugh and high five. 

I don’t remember anything else about that night, or what happened next, but I’m sure I didn’t cry or make a scene. I was a good kid, and I did a good job.