I looked up. Ten o'clock. Unbelieveable. The parents said they'd be home "around twelve." I took a deep breath and noticed the monster was cackling from some unseen location. Deciding that I should pursue the source of my discontent, I finally found him grinning widely at the door of his bedroom. "I let the gerbils out of their cage," he announced proudly. I rolled my eyes. "Terrific," I replied, lacking any enthusiasm. As I had a gerbil, I was not frightened at the prospect of catching the rodents, but was concerned they might become lost in a couch or any of the thousand other places a gerbil could hide. I immediately dropped to my hands and knees, knowing they generally fled beneath the furniture, and searched the carpet for the tiny animals. Sure enough, they were nervously enjoying their freedom under the bed's protective cover. I succeeded in flushing them into the open, whereupon they were promptly stripped of their liberty and lifted, by way of their tails, into the cage.
I turned out the light and marched into the living room where boy monster and his sister plotted against me behind suspicious smiles. I sat down and he left the room; not desiring to be surprised, I followed, entering his room just as he was about to unleash one of his gerbils again. "No!" I yelled. He disappeared, leaving the business of finding the gerbil to me; it took a bit longer this time because the mite had escaped to the master bedroom before I could detain it. Once I had the animal by the tail, I returned to the bedroom in time to intercept the monster's second attempt to free his other gerbil. Determined that no more searches would take place that evening, the gerbil cage also decorated the refrigerator top.
Of course, bedtime was a chore in itself, but one battle which I was determined to win. Through a stroke of luck or a dream realized, the two finally went to sleep, leaving me to blink at the T.V. in a fatigued stupor until I collapsed on the couch.
The parents returned well after two o'clock in the morning to find me slumped where I had fallen several hours earlier; I had earned the sleep, especially under the circumstances that I endured. Having baby-sat for over seven hours, on which I had not counted, I felt that my brush with insanity would be buffered by a "substantial" payment. The husband handed me some tightly folded bills and two quarters as I stepped into the night air, and by the feel of the wad, I trusted his integrity and believed that my effort might have been worthwhile, indeed. The "going rate" was at least 75 cents per hour, with the rate increasing to $l.00 or $l.50 for every hour past midnight. I calculated in my mind as I paced toward my house, knowing that I had been gone seven and a half hours, and turned the bills over in my hand with anticipation. "A five and maybe a couple of ones. . ." a thought echoed. I opened the door and entered, removed my shoes, and went into the kitchen to see what the light would reveal. Unrolling the bills reverently, I straightened them one by one and put them on the table. One, two, three, four dollars. . . and fifty cents. I stared silently at the bills, recalling that my minimum payment should have been $5.75. I felt used and cheated, and frankly, quite insulted. My mom, too, was angry and said I should protest my under-payment, but I was afraid to call "grown-ups" and let the matter drop.
The following week I received a phone call from the mother, requesting that I baby-sit some night that week. I had not honestly let the matter drop, for it had festered in my mind since its occurrence, and bid me forego further assignments with that family. "No," I replied. A hush ensued, urging me to explain. "I won't… I can't handle your kids." In a diminutive tone, the woman acknowledged my statement and said good-bye; by her response I somehow felt she had just experienced de ja vu. In certain respects, I pitied her, and in others, I pitied the children. The latter would one day rise to discover the world was greater than mother's protective and generous arms could encompass. Perhaps the former would one day wonder why she had treated "no" like a word from a foreign language.
Deep inside I believe that humans desire a sense of discipline from youth; guidance assures a child that his guardians care about his life enough to intervene in areas of possible danger or misdirection. Discipline commands respect toward oneself and others because it brings order to chaos and reality to life. As I grew and observed my classmates, I saw those whose parents were not restrictive often led sordid lives. They lied excessively or vulgarly splashed the truth before their parents to openly wound them. I cringed to see such cruel treatment of good people, for these parents had never lived lives similar to their child. At first I was baffled by my classmates' apparent hate for their parents, so I compared their lives to my own and discovered that, as children, tantrums and tears produced their desires. I used neither, for neither would have proven effective; "no" always meant "no" whether referring to a request or given as a disciplinary expression. I respected my mom and dad's authority, which consequently augmented my love for them. This was essentially the differing factor which separated my childhood from that of my friends. I concluded that their "hate" evolved from a lack of respect combined with the bitterness of leading empty, selfish lives; instead of searching themselves, they blamed their parents for their frustration. The parents cannot bear the entire burden, however, for each normal human possesses a mind which is quite capable of inviting either positive or negative change into his life.
Discipline is essential for the attainment of maturity, and the sooner one encounters it, or becomes aware of its necessity, the sooner growth can begin. I reflected over my current wish for freedom, and was silently glad that my parents had always voiced appropriate objections toward my sometimes doubtful intentions. No one had ever labeled me a "brat," I mused with satisfaction, so why should I babysit for other people's nightmares?
My first "real" job, for which I filled out an application, was as a clerk in a fabric store. Since my ex-sister-in-law had worked there and because I sewed occasionally and purchased goods at the store, I viewed the place as somewhat of an old friend. That fact did not abate my initial nervousness, however, nor did it serve to reverse my ultimate opinion of the place once its image had steeped in a boiling pot of reality. I liked people, but when people became "customers" certain nasty transformations often took place. This I quickly learned when, without ample training, I was hurled amid a mob of angry women who had stampeded into the store for the weekly bargains and expected rapid service. Once my nerves were ruffled, I tottered precariously on the edge of tears; I wished to please, but my conscientious attitude could not tolerate overt customer hostility when I was doing my best.
After the cyclone dissipated, I would return bolts of fabric to their various locations; if I did not know where a certain type should be placed, I asked for direction. Inquiry, I reasoned, was better than making rash mistakes. This part of the job, combined with cleaning and general upkeep, became my favorite as I needed not worry about customer interaction or managerial displeasure.
After two weeks, the manager called the three night employees to the counter after closing out the cash register in order to voice some complaints. Because I was the newest employee, he directed many explicit implications toward me, essentially blaming me for numerous misplaced bolts of material which he had gathered throughout the store and brought to the counter. He reported, also, that the money in the register and the amount dictated by the receipts did not coincide; "someone," he said, "has been short changing customers." He looked at me. "Laurie, you've got to be more accurate and speed up." When the speech was over and the misplaced cloth returned, we all fled from the store; company morale, I previously learned, had suffered under this manager. I reached my car and, once inside, let go of the frustrations and hurt that had multiplied since the job began, letting myself cry freely, without restraint. The blame, I felt, was unwarranted. The assistant manager had told me earlier that week that I was doing fine. I had not been responsible for the misplaced bolts of cloth, for I'd not seen those particular patterns that day; a customer could easily have decided against the material and stashed it in the nearest rack. As I thought about the excess cash, I recalled that, in past experiences of making change, I classically over-paid, not under-paid the customer, which would have resulted in a loss for the store. While I may have been responsible for some error, I believed that all complaints could not lead to me.