Jean

Jean was terrible. My parents took us there every time they had a gig or wanted to go on a date, which seemed to be all the time. Max and I would fight over the middle seat and ride in the Volvo up a windy hill though the woods. The houses seemed to get smaller and uglier the further up we went. Her house seemed so so small and so so ugly, and as a six year old, I wondered why she wouldn't want to live in a big, brick house on the river just like my family. She would answer the door and yell, "Hi CeeCee and Max!" Jean always wore cutoff sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the arms cut off, which exposed her wrinkly bony arms. I couldn't understand why she wouldn't want to wear dresses and nice jeans like my mom. I could never figure out how old she was, but I imagined she wasn't nearly as old as she looked. There were usually a few other kids there. We would wander to the back room and play with them (or get bullied by them) while Jean stayed on her couch smoking one cigarette after another with her eyes glued to the television, mostly watching shows like Jerry Springer and Maury. Eventually, I would wander into the living room either to see what Jean was doing or to tattle on somebody. I would catch a quick glimpse of flying fists on the TV and a enjoy a quick inhalation of secondhand cigarette smoke before she quickly sent me away. At some point she would yell from the couch "SUPPPPPPERRRR." Each of us would carry a little plastic yellow chair into the living room and set them around the coffee table. Jean would bring us paper plates with raw sliced hotdog, little squares of cheese (the kind that comes in plastic), a puddle of catchup, and green beans from the can. We loved it. Max and I would go home and beg our parents, "Make us dinner like Jean does!"
One Christmas, Jean bought me a Barbie that came with a little motorcycle. She got the same thing for Allison, a girl my age who went to Jean's house every day and who somehow scared the crap out of me. Jean got the impression that I wasn't very excited about my Barbie and said, "What's wrong? Why don't you like your Barbie? Allison loves hers. She plays with it all the time." I felt guilty and I wasn't sure why. I couldn't exactly put my finger on it, but I had a feeling she was really sad and lonely all the time. I mean, the woman yelled at babies when they cried. By the time my parents picked us up, we were like little walking ashtrays. Then we went back to our nice riverfront house and gradually the smell of tobacco and american cheese would fade away.
I don't even know if Jean is alive now. I can hardly picture her face but I can vividly picture her bony fingers clutching her remote in one hand and a cigarette in the other with "Achy Breaky Heart" blasting from the record player. I think I want her to stay that way.