12/28/00: My Afternoon With Kathy
Kathy says, "Loretta can we play Pokemon now please?" She says it breathless, so it's all one word.
"Sure," I say. It's the reason that I'm there. That, and so that Kathy's parents can see a movie and give me money, both of which are things they want to do.
"Which Pokemon should I be?" she says, which is the next line in the script. I always say, "Which one do you want to be?" and then, if she can't decide, I suggest a few of my favorites. This is what plays out: She goes with Mew, her current favorite.
Mew is a little pink flying cat that, like all Pokemon, can only say its own name, over and over and over. Mew says its name in a high pitched, sweet, friendly, querelous, outrageously annoying way. Over and over and over.
"Now you be Ash," she says. I am always Ash. Once this was a game of pretend, now it is a recitation of preset details. Even she is bored with it, but we still always play.
"I want to be the number one Pokemon trainer in the universe," I say, my voice high and cracking a little in my best imitiation of the 12 year old Ash. "I have..."
"You have every Pokemon except for a Mew," says Kathy, impatient with how slowly I am speaking. We must get the details out so that we can move on with the part she likes best, the part where I, Ash, state my wish for a Pokemon just like her, which is closely followed by the part where I, Ash, catch her, the object of all my hopes and dreams.
"Mew," says Kathy, her voice high and squeaky. "Mew mew mew." She runs back and forth.
"Is that a Mew? I think I hear a Mew."
Kathy mews in response.
"I sure wish I had a Mew. Then I would be the number one Pokemon trainer in the universe."
Kathy mews, and says, "I'll be your Mew." Which of course will complete me as a Pokemon trainer.
When Kathy was younger, she used to like to play a game where she would make me sit somewhere, then say that she was going to work and would see me when she got back. Then she would walk a few steps away and pretend to write things on invisible pieces of paper for a while, then finally come back and say, "Okay, I'm home." Her parents love her a lot and are great with her, but I guess it's hard on kids when their parents have to work. So we played that every day for a while.
But now we're doing the Pokemon thing. After I've adopted her, invariably the evil Team Rocket shows up and tries to steal her. When they take her, I try to have all the other Pokemon I have (remember? I have all of them) attack Team Rocket, who are a really pathetic duo anyway. But each time I try -- "Bulbasaur! Vine whip!" I say -- Kathy says, "It didn't work." It drives me insane. Eventually she, Kathy-as-Mew, escapes on her own recognizance.
Sometimes then we play the Ash-tells-the-pet-Pokemon-not-to-jump-off-a-cliff-but-it-does-anyway game. It always ends up fine. I guess we're not going to play that today, since instead we're playing a relatively new variation, the building a tent version. Don't think that we actually build a tent. Really Kathy waves her arms and says, "Look! Look at the tent I built!"
"Do we have sleeping bags?"
"No," says Kathy. "We have couches and carpet." Just like the living room we're in.
"Sounds comfy," I say.
"Want to come upstairs?"
"Sure."
"You're still Ash," Kathy says.
We climb roughly 872 sets of stairs. Then Kathy opens a door that only she can see, and peaks out. "Whoops," she says. "Only space."
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Kathy is exhausted. She lies on the floor and rolls on her back so that her ankles are by her head.
"Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?" I ask Kathy.
"No," she says, as though it should be obvious. "I didn't get hardly anything I wanted." She makes a face, then to be polite: "Did you get what you wanted?"
"I got some great stuff, but there wasn't really anything I really, really, wanted," I say. "It may sound weird, but really, my favorite part was when people liked the presents I gave them. That's more what Christmas is about."
"No," says Kathy. "It's not about presents or trees or Santa Claus or anything -- it's about the birth of Jesus."
"Well," I say, "not to me. I don't really believe in Jesus."
"You don't?" Kathy is a bit concerned.
"No," I say. "I believe in being nice to people though. I think a lot of things that you learn from religion are nice. Like not stealing from people, or hurting people."
Kathy considers this. Finally, she says: "Are you a Hanukah?"
"No," I say, and laugh. "I'm not Jewish."
"Well, I'm Christian," says Kathy. "I'm Christian and Catholic and Irish."
"I'm Irish too," I say. "When I was in Ireland, they said I looked like a local girl."
"You've never been to Ireland," Kathy says.
"Yes, I went in March."
"Did you see the leprechauns?"
"There aren't really any leprechauns in Ireland. Just like there aren't really any... monsters or goblins or fairies, there aren't really any leprechauns."
"Except that there's the Tooth Fairy," says Kathy. "That's the only kind of fairy that's real. She brought me five dollars for my first tooth, and six dollars for my second tooth."
I HATE lying to children. I really, really hate it. "Yes, that's the only real kind."
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We settle in for Scooby Doo and eat some dinner, which ends up being mostly fish sticks, despite my virtuous intentions. Kathy won't eat any carrots. "They make a funny taste in my mouth," she explains.
"You liked them before," I say.
"Maybe when I was little."
"You liked them a month ago!"
"Well, I was little then." She eats another fish stick. "We're still playing Pokemon."
She's looking at the back of her juice box, which has little puzzles. It says "What's different?" and shows little groups of three things, one of which doesn't go with the other two. This, of course, reminds me of the Ani DiFranco poem, "My IQ." So I start reciting.
When I was four years old
They tried to test my IQ
They showed me this picture of three oranges and a pear
They asked me, "which one is different
It does not belong"
They taught me different was wrong.
Kathy is staring at me, mouth open. "What's that?" she asks.
"It's a poem by a very smart woman named Ani DiFranco."
"Say it again."
So I do, and this time I say most of the whole thing, making judicious edits as I go. It puts Kathy in a bit of a trance and she sits, perfectly silent for a moment when I finish. "Poetry is cool, isn't it?"
"Yes," she says, her voice a near whisper.
We eat for a while, then decide to put on some Beatles music. When Kathy's parents come home, we are singing along to "Can't Buy Me Love," which is one of both of our favorites. And we're drinking chocolate milk. Kathy is upset her parents are home, because now they will monopolize me.
They want to talk to me about the job that they helped me get. Kathy's dad wants to give me some inside info on the situation. Kathy runs in and out of the kitchen, trying to find some excuse to interrupt. As I put on my coat and hat, Kathy throws her arms around my leg and says, "I don't want you to go."
It's so nice to be worshipped. I think anyone will worship you if you try your very best to tell them the truth, except where you think it will hurt them too much, and play their game at least some of the time.