Tents of Dystopia

Dear stalkers-in-a-good-way,

I apologize for being an hour late in posting this! It is technically Monday, I know. Please don’t be confused.

This week’s story begins just like any other story. An unsuspecting character is ignorantly enjoying her day when suddenly an enemy, some unforeseen evil, comes out of the blue water.

When I woke up today the sun was shining, so I decided to walk down to my community pool. I walked through the green park by our apartment complex, loving the breeze and the warm atmosphere. Children were riding along on Playskool three-wheelers with parents chasing them yelling, “SLOW DOWN!” in different languages. That is, different parents yelling in one language each. That would be strange for one parent to be yelling “SLOW DOWN! A’MIHLEEK! VAYA MAS DESPACIA!”

Lone rangers were sitting on benches reading the novels they’ve had on shelves for months. Sweaty teenage boys were gawking at the pool gate waiting for, well, me, obviously. It was a gorgeous day.

I walked into the pool area and tried to decide where to sit. I didn’t want to be in the moving shadow of an overbearing tree. I also didn’t want to lay next to an occupied chair and awkwardly try to indicate that my choosing the empty lawn chair next to your lawn chair out of a sea of empty lawn chairs does not mean I want to sleep with you or your child. Finally I chose a seemingly safe region and prepared to have a peaceful hour or two with the sunshine, the cool water, and George Orwell.

Just then, two little girls, both shorter than my ankles, ran to a corner behind me. That’s strange, I thought. And slightly frightening. So I kept my eye on them, in a very non-stalker type of way. I heard them mention a tent and towels, and the child in me became very excited. My younger sister and I would spend hours constructing tents out of blankets and chairs, towels and couches, anything we could drape over anything else. My parents loved the idea that their daughters would grow up to be brilliant and successful engineers. Words cannot contain their disappointment.

One of the little girls said, “I’ll throw this towel over this fence and we can put it over this chair!” The adult in me became very upset. Throwing a towel over a chain link fence? Really? Do you think that’s going to make a tent? All you’re going to do is throw your towel into the trees.

Which of course she did, except for one little thread still hanging on the top of a spike. She said, “Woops…too high.”

The little girl started climbing this chain link fence, while the other girl was just watching. This second girl, by the way, was very much the dud of the duo. She didn’t say one word or contribute one method of tent-making. Strictly there for show. A trophy friend with Dora the Explorer bikini bottoms. I have friends like that. Except instead of Dora it’s Blue. With a paw print on the back.

So this other girl was climbing this terribly high fence, which to them must have seemed like the Tower of Babel, without the blasphemous undertones.

I realized that she was probably going to fall and crack her skull so I got up and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get your towel for you.”

She says, panting, “No, I got it!”

So I stood and watched as she kept placing her foot in the same exact place and slipping. Trying to climb and slipping.

Then she said, “Okay.”

I grabbed her hot pink towel and said with a smile, “I think if you’re going to make a tent, you should fold up the backs of these two lawn chairs and drape the towel over each one.”

Chubs snatched her towel and says, “Thanks. Okay.”

I walked back to my chair, offended by this rude reaction to my help. Here I am, a tent expert, saving her towel from the other side, and all she says is, “Okay.” Well!

I try to concentrate on 1984, which by the way does not make for light summer reading, but I can’t help turning around and observing their so-called progress. After half an hour they had finally succeeded in creating a “tent” that could fit only half of one of them. Wouldn’t even shade my left foot.

Then Towel Girl turns around to face me, glaring like I’ve never seen anyone do before. At first I thought maybe it was the sun, but I realized the sun was in my face, not hers. I have never been so afraid of a six-year-old, until now. I have never been so afraid of anyone.

All the while her mother was just smiling from across the pool. Excuse me, I wanted to say, your daughter is melting my internal organs with the death-rays shooting from her beady little eyes and all you can say is, “Charlotte! Charlotte, do you want some watermelon?”

I would have liked some watermelon, but no.

Signed,
Prudy