Guy Cramer

The babysitter is doing her nails. Her long green leather case is open with rows of
polish bottles sticking up like a mouthful of alligator’s teeth after eating a paint store.
Last time I saw it she could fit it in her palm, now it’s bigger as me. I peek at her
through the door of the study, which no one is supposed to be in, at least it’s the rule
for me. Maybe babysitters have different rules. She’s still wet, rubbing her stringy hair
with one of our rainbow beach towels. She’s also using the phone, she’s not supposed
to, but again, different rules. I overhear she’s going away. Maybe she’s aged in
babysitter years like a dog or cat and it’s time for her to retire at the ripe old age of 17?
With that age comes power, not wisdom. Like Mom, she has eyes in the back of her
head and says to come in. She says she and her dream boy Luke are driving to Mexico
tomorrow and they’ve packed enough clothes to last forty years. I ask what Mexico is
like, she says it’s like Neverland except with heat and tarantulas. I regret the trouble I
caused her during our time together, hiding her Claire’s Accessories zodiac charm
bracelets in the crab tank, and putting her left Jelly shoe in our garbage disposal. I ask
since I’ll no longer have a sitter, does this means I’m all grown up? She lists several
things that make a grown up a grown up and suddenly it doesn’t sound appealing. She
asks if I want to go too. I ask if she’s told any of her other kids. Opening her bag
wider I’m greeted by a sea of wild little hands that pull me in. I recognize some of
their faces from my block. I hold my breath as the zipper closes behind me. It tastes
like cotton candy and caramel apples. Inside she has everything, Gameboys, travel
Yahtzee, Flintstones vitamins, Chef Boyardee, even my gerbil who went missing
weeks ago. Now I don’t feel bad about her stuff. And then there’s the clothes. We all
take turns modeling the outfits they plan to wear for every decade of their lives.
What’s most shocking is her assortment of blazers with the oversized shoulder pads.
Luke has a few Sansabelt slacks like Dad’s, I wonder if he knows he’ll probably need
to take out the waist in a few years. And if Mexico is as warm as they say, maybe I’ll
keep these palm leaf swim trunks on. Maybe I’ll never have to change.

Guy Cramer is a writer from Texas whose work has been published in HAD, Midcult*, Hobart, Pool Party Mag, Farewell Transmission, tiny wren lit, and elsewhere. He is on Instagram at: guy.cramer