Relax Said the Nightman
Melissa Llanes Brownlee
Jen gets picked up for her babysitting job by Mr. Miller, call me Ted, in a silver sports car. It’s the only time she ever babysits for the Millers. She runs her hands along the taupe leather of the interior, admiring the space-age dashboard.
When they leave her alone with Teddy, put him to bed at 9, don’t let him watch TV, she puts Teddy on the beige sectional with a book and wanders over to the compact disc player Ted showed her how to use and she pulls out the Eagles from among the Beatles, the Smiths, the Dead Kennedys, Kansas, Boston, Chicago, takes out the shiny silver donut with her fingers holding it like a sandwich, remembering Ted telling her to be careful not to get smudges on the discs, and plops it down, pushing play and waiting for “Hotel California” to play. She strokes the top of the stereo, another space-age machine of silver, leaving more smudges. She fingers the weird mask on the wall, all bristly hair, and staring eyes, the pupils open to the ecru paint behind it.
She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge, let Teddy have a snack if he gets hungry, and sees an opened bottle of white wine, pops off the cork and takes a sip, burning her throat, pops the cork back on and puts it back. She lifts out a silver knife from another space-age contraption, dots running along its handle, and cuts a single strand of her hair with it. She pretends she’s a pirate or a murderer, stabbing the air, her grip firm and true. She puts the knife back, sliding it swiftly into its sheath of metal, the ringing sound echoing around her, guitars shifting gears in the background as the tempo speeds up. She goes back to the fridge for another nip before getting the plate of cheese and crackers the Millers left for Teddy. She puts it on the sofa next to him but he doesn’t seem interested so she gobbles a few of them before heading to the bathroom to pee.
Along the walls are pictures of the Millers without Teddy, sunny and blond and rich. Mrs. Miller is long and lean, always in white. Teddy is long and muscled, not too much, and also in white and sometimes in khaki. She runs her hands along their bodies, white shimmering under her cheesy cracker fingers.
In the bathroom, please use this one, it’s for guests, we’ve locked our bedroom because Teddy likes to sleep in our bed and we are training him out of that, she closes the door behind her. The white and beige and silver follow her. She lifts her shirt, her breasts bigger than they should be for her age, and pushes them against the mirror. She runs the water hot and puts her cheesy cracker fingers under it until they are scalded, rubbing them against her mirror cold skin.
Teddy doesn’t fight her when she tells him to go to bed. She finishes his cheese and crackers, puts the dishes in the sink and has just a little more wine. She hits play again and listens until the Millers come home. Ted drives her back to the not so nice neighborhood, the windows down, the night air sweet and cool, he tips her an extra twenty for the night, pushing the money into her pocket before she can take it from him, his hard fingers digging into her skin.
Melissa Llanes Brownlee (she/her), a native Hawaiian writer, living in Japan, has work published or forthcoming in Milk Candy Review, Necessary Fiction, NFFR, trampset, and elsewhere, including Best Small Fictions 2021 and Best Microfiction 2022. Read Hard Skin, her short story collection, coming soon from Juventud Press. She tweets @lumchanmfa and talks story at www.melissallanesbrownlee.com.