Babysitting Mr. Thompson
By Wynne Burroughs
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Wynne Burroughs 2012
Cover © Can Stock Photo Inc. / disorderly
Contents
Babysitting Mr. Thompson
Greg and Lisa had long since gone upstairs to sleep. I'd spent the time since sending them to bed watching TV and texting my friends. Anything to distract me from the thoughts about Mr. Thompson.
I don't know if he was the hottest dad in the neighborhood. There were probably a couple that most girls would find hotter. But it wasn't hard to catch any of the other dads looking at me with lascivious eyes. It's not like that's a big problem. They were all smart enough to keep it in their head and maybe give me a better tip in an attempt to assuage their shame. But Mr. Thompson was always a perfect gentleman. I think that's what made me want him.
Finally, the front door swung open and in came Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.
“I don't know what you want me to say?” he said, talking to his wife.
Mrs. Thompson growled, “You shouldn't have given that cunt a tip at all—”
“It was her first night. That would be unnecessarily cruel,” said Mr. Thompson.
His wife carefully tossed her coat and stomped up the stairs. I could hear Greg and Lisa's beds bed springs bounce.
Mr. Thompson sighed. He motioned for me to get up.
“Laura, you want a ride home?” he said.
“Love one,” I replied.
I got my jacket and he escorted me out to the car. It was only a few blocks to my house, but it was unseasonably cold and I wanted a few minutes alone with him.
As soon as the kicked to life I said, “What was that all about?”
“You know Juliet,” said Mr. Thompson, “The waitress did mess up our order three times, got us the wrong appetizer, wrong wine and salad. She's right to be pissed off.”
“I dunno. It seems like she's blowing it out of proportion,” I said.
“I'm probably being too lenient. Too nice. See, that's why we're such a good pair. I'm the good cop and she's the bad cop.”
I said, “I don't think I've ever heard of a bad cop taking it out on the good cop, though.”
“Well, you'll understand some day,” he said.
“You could do better...”
He smiled at that but said, “I love my wife.”
Finally, we reached my house. He stopped and pulled an envelope out of his wallet. Mr. Thompson handed it to me. I didn't even count it. The Thompsons were my best clients, my preferred clients. Mr. Thompson ensured that I was always paid quickly with an okay tip and that the two of them never stayed out longer than they said they would.
But they were far from my only clients. Their next door neighbors, the Reynolds, also used my services from time to time. The next event that moved me along to my private fantasy took place a week and a half later. I was watching their son Dominic.
Suddenly I heard yelling. I couldn't make out exactly what was being said but it was Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Dominic was playing X-Box and completely distracted. I took the opportunity to eavesdrop.
“That's all you fucking men think about, isn't it!?” Mrs. Thomson yelled.
It was a bit harder to make out Mr. Thompson, but I think it was, “I didn't want to make it a big thing. Look, I'm okay with just doing it myself—”
“You're cheating in your mind—”
“No I'm not—it's just like, mental lubrication.”
They continued yelling back and forth for a little while and eventually Greg and Lisa emerged carrying stuffed backpacks and sleeping bags. At least while they were nearby, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson argued in the vaguest terms possible. Once in the car Mrs. Thompson drove off into the night.
I wanted nothing more than to abandon Dominic and comfort Mr. Thompson, but he's a little trouble maker. I can't endanger somebody else's kids.
But suddenly I appeared to have an in, a way to nudge myself into a space in Mr. Thompson's heart.
A few months earlier Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had gone away for some kind of couples getaway. They'd be gone for a few days, so they gave me the key to their house (as well as the run of the joint). When they returned they never asked for it back.