The Babysitter at Rest

by Jen George

  Bill on the other students

  It took the other students some time to get used to the environment and the workload at The Warehouse. Honestly, the others were peripheral, background characters or extras, like a lot of people fear they are and often, in reality, are. In my memory, they’re almost less than one dimensional, just bodies doing work. So, just picture that, like shovels and frozen dirt and hunched backs. I think they just got through the program and attended some orgies and were mostly glad when it was over and they could say they’d learned from The Teacher at The Warehouse—some people had little careers based on that alone. One of the other students wrote I Was an Apprentice Jockey Also, about three years after my book was published. It was completely forgettable and read by almost no one. If mine was amateur, theirs was asinine.

  Stadium maintenance/carpentry

  The stadium interior is in ruins at the end of each season. It is buried in losing tickets and the interiors of the ticket booths are covered in dried semen and cobwebs. The televisions stay on, playing races from the last season, showing all of the horses that are now dead and need to be buried before the program is over. There is a beautiful horse called The Golden Present running in slow motion, crossing the finish line. We are burying him this week. One television plays the news where they talk about the coming war they’ve yet to give a name to.

  We bring the table saw to the stadium and cut new beams for the ceiling that has caved in. We sweep up millions of losing tickets. We place them on the track then burn them, creating an oval of fire. There is ash everywhere.

  Oh Clyde

  Clyde made me a shim for my uneven worktable out of a dried mushroom he found in the stables. It fits perfectly. Clyde watches me at all times, even when he doesn’t look at me. I’m aware of him and he’s aware of me. He waits at the Broadway Junction for me when school gets out, even if I don’t show up. Clyde has very strong hands, worker’s hands. Clyde is the sentinel, and he is the groundskeeper. The Teacher has gone to give a speech somewhere in South America. Clyde and I go to the Aqueduct bar inside the stadium. We drink beer and Clyde plays George Jones on the jukebox. Clyde is kind. We hold each other. We fall in love here. When Clyde kisses me it’s like kissing the earth instead of God. There is no danger of omnipotent consumption. It is bodily rather than celestial. It is loving. There is something violent about it, but it is lighter than God and no sacrifice is required. Clyde has an enormous penis. As long as Clyde is with me, I am safe.

  Clyde

  It’s better not to remember things.

  Alice

  Of course there was going to be a love triangle. I just thought I would’ve been involved somehow.

  Alice

  Everyone hated Bill’s stuff. It was pedantic.

  Bill

  Everyone hated Alice’s stuff. It was narcissistic.

  Where’s Clyde?

  Guarding the stairs at Broadway Junction.

  Teacher/Student conference: frustration

  Teacher: It’s almost like you want to be a philistine.

  Me: What’s that?

  Teacher/Student conference: anger & empty threats

  Teacher: It’s almost like you’re trying to piss me off. I’d like to clock you.

  Teacher/Student conference: reconciliation

  Teacher: Do you know how to make the coffee?

  Me: No, I don’t.

  Teacher (putting his lips to my neck, just below the ear): I’ll show you.

  Me: You don’t know how to make the coffee either.

  Bill on 1001 Stories of Work-a-Day-Johnnys Getting Rich, the #1 bestseller before and during the coming war

  Before the coming war, and during it, the majority of the population read 1001 Stories of WADJs Getting Rich daily. It was supplemental to playing the lottery, or playing the lottery was supplemental to the reading. It was a cultural phenomenon people became obsessed by; they’d exchange favorite stories while ringing up customers or bagging their groceries or lunching on Tupperware salads in the break room. Each story was designed to have a particular relevance to every type of WADJ. One story would star a cashier who lunches on Tupperware salad and dreams of getting rich while on breaks or when dealing with a particularly ornery customer, and then any variations thereof in the WADJ world—a hotel concierge lunching on canned chili, an office worker lunching on Lean Cuisines, a nanny lunching on her charge’s leftover pizza crust—could relate to that story. Other stories focused on familial problems, or mental problems, boredom problems, medical problems, sex problems, memory problems, love problems, bowel problems, addiction problems, most of which were solved by either non-lottery windfalls overnight (inheritance, unknowingly being a plaintiff in a class action lawsuit, gift from an employer, marriage to someone rich & famous), or by winning the lottery. Most wanted to win the lottery because it wasn’t attached to anyone/thing else—it was viewed as a personal accomplishment, akin to being chosen. A few of the stories ended with the WADJ not being happy even after all the money, to give the readers the impression that money isn’t everything, you can’t escape yourself, etc., so that the readers could continue their lives of poverty in the comfort of a fabricated lesson. Still, what was published as a sort of opiate for the masses or elaborate fantasy-as-escapism, became a poison—after years of reading and playing the lotto, the majority of people didn’t get rich, so they despaired, became lethargic, depressive, missed work, went on anti-depressants, went back to work, then quietly started talking about war and kept all talk very, very quiet. So quiet no one had any idea the coming war was coming. Or that it still is.

  The Teacher’s Memoir, Early Years, Chapter 11: The Coming War

  It has not yet come as we have predicted it would because the moment has not yet crystalized. It is ongoing. Many necessary things have been eliminated or brought to light, but not all. Realization and understanding have little significance. Action is the only necessity.

  The Teacher’s Memoir, 1993, Chapter 11:2: The Coming War

  When people consider thought to be action enough, the coming war will be upon us. This is the final catalyst. Also, people will be cantankerous and generally sick of it, possibly achy, nauseous, and in need of taking a shit or getting off.

  The benefactors

  We prefer antiseptic smells.

  Clyde, reading from The Teacher’s Memoir, 1993, Chapter 11:3: The Coming War

  “The visionaries of our time are either ignominious or non-existent. The title is almost exclusively self-appointed then supported by lesser, similarly hackneyed minds. It is the Age of the Self, the Age of Self-Proclamation; it is the Age Without Vision, the Age of Things That Do Not Endure, the Final Age to End All Ages in Total Silence and Futility. Permission is mistaken for talent where it is only limited potential, devoid of meaning and action. Talent has become a monetized luxury, the spices and gold of the contemporary epoch. The people without the privilege to self-appoint or self-proclaim are angry, seething, are quiet in their anger. They birth resentment, disappointment, they turn the world dark, fulfill their destiny as nothing—coming from nothing, dying as nothing. Their last chance at a sense freedom has been erased, only they have not yet given in to this weakness, perpetuating that which they hate.”

  Foreplay

  Inaction. Uncertainty. Sweaty palms.

  The Teacher’s Memoir, 1993, Chapter 12: The Coming Wart

  (Having previously been interrupted mid-make out, lights dimmed, hands down pants, eyebrows wiggling suggestively …)

  “Now where were we?”

  “I may or may not have genital warts.”

  Applause. Laughter, then crying.

  “But seriously, where were we?”

  Communion

  The Teacher calls Clyde and me to the office. Everyone else has gone home. The Teacher does not want Clyde to wait for me or watch me any longer. The Teacher does not want Clyde and me going off during maintenance or digging to play George “stupid eyes like a possum” Jones’s 45’s and screw in
the Aqueduct bar any longer. I know this, even though The Teacher has not told me.

  From his desk The Teacher pulls out a bottle of whiskey. We drink. Then we drink more. Then we are drunk.

  I look at Clyde. Clyde’s tanned skin is rosy and warm. I can feel heat coming off him. Clyde smiles and looks at me with love. I am afraid for Clyde. I’m afraid of The Teacher. But we laugh. We all laugh.

  The Teacher tells us to get undressed. Clyde looks small in the office. I think The Teacher has shrunk him slightly.

  The Teacher asks me to get on my hands and knees. I love The Teacher and I love Clyde in very different ways. I love The Teacher’s beauty. I love Clyde’s beauty.

  The Teacher tells Clyde to enter me from behind while I have The Teacher’s dick in my mouth. Clyde follows instruction.

  The Teacher is solemn. Clyde’s breath is shallow. It is as though we are dying—slightly nice, but with the foreboding feeling that you can’t turn back.

  The Teacher comes in my mouth. Clyde comes inside of me. This creates confusion.

  “You are a maintenance man, Clyde,” The Teacher tells Clyde when we are done. “You’re a very skilled maintenance man,” The Teacher says. The three of us sit naked in the office smoking a joint. Everyone would like to leave but cannot.

  The Teacher comes close to me, moves my hair from my neck and breathes heavily into my ear.

  “Ranchera, my Ranchera. Are you full yet?”

  Notes

  The Teacher stares at me from the office window. He does not come down from the office.

  Teacher/Student conference: focus

  Teacher: What direction are you taking?

  Me: I’ve almost completed the Night Village replicas of every house I ever slept over at as a child, thirty-two in all, with a different father for each house. In some houses I slept at, the fathers would watch me as I pretended to sleep, some would watch me while I sat in the hot tub, some would watch me while I ate pizza, some would watch me while there was a sex scene on a TV show. Their intentions were always to have a secret between us. They often had erections. I think I’m going to call it Fathers in Other Houses: A Night Village. I may do a series of Night Villages.

  Teacher: The concept adds up to what is basically a sprawling doll-house. You must remember you are not a hobbyist. I think you’re losing focus. It’s not about you, Ranchera. Turning to nostalgic memories of lecherous pedophiliac fathers is for artists who will never do anything of substance.

  Notes

  The Teacher/older man with large hands wants too much from me. He leaves notes at my worktable, hidden in the books I don’t read. The Teacher tells me he loves me fifteen times a day. It is excessive.

  Implosion

  For my final project I design an outdoor installation called Implosion. It’s a series of enormous, unified mirrors along the East River from Brooklyn to Queens up to Rikers, down to Red Hook, the entire Jersey side of the Hudson visible from Manhattan, and spanning crosstown at 118th St. The mirrors are high enough that Manhattan will be able to look at itself while blocking the outer boroughs, New Jersey, and anything north of 118th St. from sight. We begin construction on the foundation and all of the students at The Warehouse are put to work on the project. I think they may resent me in some way. We work twenty hours a day digging, welding, cementing; no one sleeps. We take large quantities of pseudoephedrine. I’ve stopped eating. I weigh ninety-eight pounds. Giant cranes and several helicopters place the mirrors together once the foundation is in place. One student loses a leg when the glare of the sun on the mirror temporarily blinds the helicopter pilot (also a Warehouse student), causing the pilot/student to drop the mirror on the student’s leg, slicing it clean off. When Implosion is finished, the unified mirror reflects Manhattan all around itself from north to south, east to west. Manhattan takes it as a compliment and sees it as a major cosmetic improvement; they release a statement saying the city has never looked better and that the city’s realization of itself is complete. In the outer boroughs they wait in the shadows of the mirror, listening, not knowing what it looks like from the other side. New Jersey is forgotten completely. After the opening at the Queensbridge Park, before the sun comes up in the east, The Teacher and I fuck against the mirror. Everyone has either gone to bed, is fucking at some point along the mirror, or is looking at the mirror from some other place in the city. I think Clyde is sleeping somewhere around the mirror in Greenpoint. The Teacher tells me, “This is the best thing you will ever do, Ranchera.”

  Notes

  This is the last time.

  Alice on the departure of Clyde

  People were like, “Where’s Clyde?”

  Bill on the Completion Ceremony

  There was to be a closing ceremony funded by the benefactors—the owners of the Aqueduct, franchise owners of the vendor stalls, Subway’s head honchos, the entire board of NYFA, the MacArthur Foundation board of directors—upon completion of the program, before The Warehouse was torn down, at which work would be shown and where everyone was to pat themselves on the back, unwind, mingle, drink too much, and possibly sleep with the benefactors, like a graduation or wrap party, but where nothing official really happened. Lee didn’t show up. No one had seen her since Implosion’s opening. The Teacher didn’t show up. When the benefactors figured out The Teacher wasn’t coming, they all departed in white 1979 Cadillac Coupe de Villes drawn by American Albino horses that took them to the Belt Parkway, through the Queens-Midtown tunnel, and back to Manhattan. The cars and the horses were so bright in the night that we could see the procession for some time. Some of us drank beers. Most of us took large quantities of pseudoephedrine and stared at the bulldozer that’d been parked outside The Warehouse the whole week. One of the students, I don’t remember who, tried to turn on the bulldozer and tear down The Warehouse himself, but couldn’t figure out how to operate the machine. I doubt he would’ve gone through with it—it was maybe the one thing he did to try to make his mark before it was all over. Everyone was kind of disgusted with each other after six months of hard labor and excessive after-hours orgies in the name of art or experience or youth or the moment, and there was a general sense of disappointment among all of us regarding personal artistic progress after The Teacher had failed to take an interest in anyone but Lee over the course of the program. No one made a closing speech, no one made plans to see each other. We left in small groups, or alone. It was more like a funeral than a party.

  Bill on exodus

  I heard Lee went back to California on a bus. That the trip took five days. That she ate nothing and took large quantities of trucker speed while crossing the country. After that, I heard she lived in the desert and was homeless. Then I heard she took up with a guy who flame-broiled the frozen horsemeat patties at the Burger King in Chino. I heard they lived in an apartment complex that used to be a Motel 6 that was shut down after a string of swimming pool molestations. People in the art scene and the coming war scene speculated about Lee—everyone wanted to know what exactly The Teacher had seen in her. Implosion was considered important and her raga was performed all over the city, but she’d done nothing after. So when it got around that she left and took up with a Burger King cook near where she grew up, people said she wasn’t cut out for great things. But they stayed curious. There were rumors The Teacher went to California to look for her, but I’m not sure about that since it was well known he was afraid of earthquakes. The Teacher publicly dated other young women who made porcelain figurines or wrote poetry or played experimental guitar music, but everyone kind of knew he was still fixated on Lee. That The Teacher was still interested in Lee kept people interested in her. The rumors turning to legend of Lee bred hundreds of imitators.

  Everyone started leaving the city because suddenly the coolest thing was to be a complete fuck up and throw everything away. People scattered to their hometowns or to the middle of nowhere trying to be no one. They got jobs at fast food joints and Home Depots and the post office. The city was a ghost
town. The thing no one considered was that they had nothing to throw away, so leaving the city was a setback they couldn’t afford. Within a few months, a year, everyone trickled back in. They’d gotten insecure being away, or wanted to know what was going on, or they’d hated their jobs, or part of them still wanted to be somebody. Everyone had to start from square one again—no money, no name, shitty apartment, roommates, disconnected from old friends with connections who had moved on.

  Bill on origins of “The Garbage Years”

  It was rumored Lee went to live in a convent outside Santa Barbara famous for its in-house taquería and became a demi-nun, doing landscaping and maintenance, janitor stuff, making carne asada and corn tortillas daily, baking tequila-soaked fruitcakes for the holidays. So then instead of becoming a drop out, people becoming nuns or monks was in and all the artists joined monasteries and convents upstate—not too far away, so they could keep up with what was going on in the city. There were a lot of paintings of pastoral scenes and writing in the form of diary entries about nature or chores produced during that time, most of which are now considered garbage, the period being referred to in the art world as “The Garbage Years.”