I like to think beginnings are like writing exercise...

But I'm afraid I'm fooling myself, because they shirk the issue of continuation. Regardless, I've written another. This one's about a babysitter who is stuck with a terrible, naughty boy. But we don't know that yet.

The sound of the jets, above. The light of the sky, above. The crest of my vision, above. The things I am under, above. I took his hand and we walked a little ways towards the grocery store, where I would buy the groceries needed to make dinner. He was so small beside me, I towered over him like a mountain, or a lop-sided building. The air-duct on the side of the grocery store had disconnected from the siding and it appeared as if it might crash down on us. The little man was four years old, he was the son of my best friend, who had taken a vacation to the Bahamas.

I remember the way things looked, when I was just a child. I remember how unfortunate it seemed that I could not decide the most mundane things, such as what socks I would wear, and that these mundane decisions were taken care of, for me, by my mother. I hated my mother in my youth, but I didn't realize that one day, all of those things would loom over my head, like this air-duct at the grocery store, each minor decision, another burden to bear.

I decided that we would try to make curry, the same kind of curry one eats in a Thai Food restaurant, with coconut milk. At the time, I didn't know that this boy was allergic to almost every kind of vegetable, with an ungodly reaction that resembled a temper tantrum. I filled my basket with mushrooms, broccoli, carrots, onions, and garlic. I had trouble getting him to speak, although my best friend had told me that he was far ahead of the learning curve with his vocabulary. His attitude appeared to be the result of home-sickness, without any idea how manipulative his behavior really was.

So after I wrote that sentence, I realized that I was creating a monster, with this four-year-old boy. I didn't know what or how he would bring about the demise of his baby-sitter, but she seemed like an easy target, someone who is burdened by simple things.

He let go of my hand for a moment, to scratch his nose. He had the kind of freckles that spread out over almost reddish-skin like a disease. His hair was blond, and his face reminded me of the little boys you'd see in propagandistic posters for the Hitler-youth. And I actually believed that he was an angel. He was quiet, he had followed my orders with utmost care, for the last three days. It was only when he reached for his nose while I pulled carrots from the shelf that a slight hint of malice could be seen. I looked down at him and after a miniscule scratch to his nose, he reached a finger into his nostril and lowered it to his mouth, to chew and swallow a booger.

"Hey!" I said to him, grabbing his hand to slap it. He just stared at me blankly.
"No!" I said. I slapped him and let go of his little wrist. He crossed his arms and I could see the slightest crease in his forehead form, from his brow tightening. I looked away, towards the next vegetable bin, looking for onions. They were on sale with a club-card because the harvesting season had just come into full-swing. I still did not understand how or why a club-card was necessary for discounts. The next thing I knew, Jared had disappeared.

I stopped here and came back a few hours later to the story. I thought of some hopefully non sequitur, and indirect details that I wanted to add to it. I guess they were perceptions I had while driving.

Later, we were driving home. He was stiff as a board, and quiet, as though he had won a little game out of spite. I had searched the entire grocery store, only to find him waiting for me by the garbage can outside the sliding glass doors of the Safeway. He waited for me peacefully, with a slight smile. I felt removed from him, but my senses were attuned to his every movement now. Each bump in the road felt like I had killed something under the wheels of the car. I felt like I was driving, murdering and driving on. I looked at the pedestrians standing on the corners of the streets waiting for the little white man to appear and lead them to the other side of the road along the crosswalk. One of these pedestrians had slicked back hair and his dark eyes stared at me. Even as I drove by, they followed me. Our eyes were locked. I didn't know why. He looked at me, the driver, and drilled his steady gaze at me, as though passing judgment. But for what, I couldn't know.

Jared said just one sentence on the drive home. He told me, "I hate vegetables, but I'll eat macaroni and cheese."