I knew what I was in for when I played the voicemail message and heard what sounded like a train wreck being swallowed by a tornado to the tune of whirling banshees.
Children. Three of them. All staying at my house. One of them mine. Two from out of town.
They had decided to leave me a message: “BONGO JIMMY,” they screamed. A phrase I made up. Played back to me it sounded like an ice pick to the ear drums.
I considered phoning a travel agent and booking a trip somewhere quiet and peaceful and heavy on the Mai Tais.
I’m not used to “children.” I’m used to a “child.” One child. An ONLY-child. Three kids in a house? I once flew onto a Navy aircraft carrier in the middle of war games. That was like a high school study hall compared to this.
Three kids — two 8-year-olds and a 5-year-old. No volume control. They scream everything. As if they’re on a construction site shouting over heavy equipment. Or a sinking ship trying to rise above the crashing waves and churning engines. Such urgency. Such bellowing. So many profound statements that the world — the ENTIRE world! — must here like: “CAN I HAVE SOME MORE ORANGE JUICE?” or “HOW COME YOUR TOILET WATER SWIRLS TO THE LEFT?”
I DON’T KNOW! HOW COME WE’RE 5 INCHES APART AND SHOUTING?
Kids don’t understand sarcasm, do they? They answer back, “I DON’T GET IT. DO YOU WANT ME TO SHOUT LOUDER?”
An alarm clock in my daughter’s room was set for 5:59 each morning. I didn’t think children who stayed up late had the physical or mental capacity to rise before 6. But each morning the 5:59 wailing proved me a fool.
I would hear sounds downstairs like a herd of wild buffalo practicing the tango. Arguing about what to watch on TV. Discussing how a carton of orange juice had mysteriously exploded … WITHOUT ANYONE EVEN TOUCHING IT!!!!
The dog would show up in my bedroom, press her head on the comforter with weepy eyes. I think she was imploring me to call the police and have them all locked up.
We call my dog “the wild beast.” And for good reason. Do you know what kind of mayhem it takes to send a dog like that fleeing for her safety?
But the only-child loved it. The ruckus. The arguing. The screaming until her earlobes turned purple. Having bunkmates in the lunatic asylum. How the neighbors would drop by to politely ask if everything was OK. “So you want us to call the SWAT team?”
Well, not yet at least.
On the final day, my wife drove our friends off to meet their ride out of town. She said there wasn’t a sound from the back seats. Exhausted zombies. Every ounce of available energy burned off. Vocal chords strained. Arguing tapped out. Perfect angels.
I sat in my living room, my ears still ringing. The dog sighed. The quiet reigned. Bongo Jimmy considered an 8 a.m. Mai Tai, and figuring out why the toilet water swirled left.