The Babysitter

Written on 9/15/08

During my childhood in the Philadelphia suburbs, the only time my parents went out—other than the occasional anniversary dinner—was during parent-teacher conferences at school. For this event, my mother and father would leave my brother, sister and I in the care of a neighborhood boy name John, who was tall with dirty-blond hair and thick glasses.

Usually, John would arrive after we were already in bed and peek into our rooms one at a time to check on us. I would hear John coming down the hall and hide under the covers. Because during this time there were two things that scared me more than anything else: the concept of alien abduction and the idea of an unexpected person entering my room while I was asleep. Like Santa.

I spent a good portion of my childhood fearing Santa Clause. One year in elementary school, as Christmas approached, my teacher read a story about a little girl who wished for a puppy for Christmas. The little girl’s parents said “no”. But she wrote a letter to Santa anyway. And do you know what Santa did? The jolly old elf snuck into the little girl’s room while she was asleep and left a squirmy puppy in an open box for her, right next to her bed. Most children would be excited by this idea. I was terrified.

“Please don’t let him come into my room,” I would tell my mother every Christmas Eve until I finally grew out of the Santa Clause belief. Because, really, what little girl wants a bearded fat guy in a weird red suit sneaking around her bedroom while she’s sleeping. To me, this is the stuff of nightmares. It was bad enough to think of him sneaking into our house. But as long as he was limited to the downstairs tree area and left an adequate amount of good presents, I thought that was fine.

One evening the babysitter John arrived early and was given instructions to make my brother, sister and I go to bed around eight. Once my parents were out of the picture, we tried everything we could to get John to loosen up and have a good time. We broke out the Transformers, I got my Jem dolls and my sister brought out her Barbies, some Legos and a Mr. Potato Head. We even brought out our pet hermit crabs and a Fisher Price parking garage, complete with a winding roadway and cars with little holes on the tops to accommodate round, plastic people.

“Look John,” my sister shouted as she stuffed a hermit crab into the hole on top of one of the cars and sent it flying down the winding road from the top of the parking garage. But John just sat on the sofa with his nose buried in a book. Soon, he was asleep.

Eight o’clock came and went, and with John asleep, my brother, sister and I decided there was really no need to go to bed. We thought it would be more fun to stay up and fuck with John.

I can’t say that I remember exactly whose idea it was, but I can tell you that one of us decided to adorn John with Mr. Potato head earrings while he slept. And this is exactly how my parents found him when they came home later that night.

“Hi John,” my father said as he entered the house and approached the living room where John was just waking up on the sofa. “Everything go okay?”

John groggily rubbed his eyes and looked around. His face turned red when he saw that my brother, sister and I were still up. He was visibly uneasy from the way my father was looking at him.

My father touched his own ears—first the right one, then the left. Instinctively, John did the same. And I couldn’t help but notice the way John’s face turned an even darker shade of red when he came away with two plastic Mr. Potato Head hoop earrings in his hands.

That was the last time we ever saw John as a babysitter. Though, I’m fairly certain it was not because he wasn't wanted and only because he was a bit too embarrassed to come back.