Harold, At Home

1. Suddenly we’re playing with a whole cast of imaginary characters, running around in our pajamas, and smearing flour paste all over our bodies. She works at slowly unhinging me, bringing me from premise to premise until I’m totally turned about and unsure of what kinds of boundaries we’re working with.

When Harold comes home from work, I can feel him do a visual scan of the apartment. He wonders why there’s flour paste on the floor, sees the basket of dinosaurs overturned in the middle of the room, the instruments stacked at awkward angles, the grid of masking tape on the walls, the punctured plastic cups in the sink.

He wonders what we’ve been doing all day. He doesn’t say anything when he comes in, just changes clothes and gets to work loading the dishwasher, scooping up dinosaurs, rinsing out whatever needs to be rinsed. The apartment is transformed in a matter of minutes and a hush falls over us.

2. She’s in a bathtub full of floating legos, so absorbed in her marine engineering that she does not question why we are hiding in here. Her hair parts itself in damp tendrils and her thin naked back is bent over the water. Her chin is folded down upon her chest in study.

She smiles to herself with satisfaction and raises a dripping tower in triumph. Primary colors, bold against the fizz of bubbles.The structure floats toward one side of the bathtub as she reaches for a couple of blocks and a plastic donkey she has brought in for company.

The radio plays harsh against earth tone tiles. It’s something between rockabilly and punk. She pays no attention, but the music seems to drive her into focus. She looks up from her plastic nest of blocks and says out of habit, “I need more toys in here.”

In the other room, Harold is getting ready for bed.