My Treat

by Geno Petro

Chicago Broker Owner Realtor | RE 2.0 Blogger

Author website

Every so often, Mona and I attend to a close friend’s First Grader while the single mother does her required corporate traveling gig for one of the remaining Fortunate 100 oligopolies. During these few time warped days each month I am thrust into grandfatherly duties which I find to be almost Dali-esque as I, at age 52, can still recall a good portion of my own first school years with vivid, if not shocking clarity–at least the surreal parts; unlike my youngest sister who refers to her similar childhood in the same household as ‘those blacked-out years.’ (And yes, to this day, we both refuse formal therapy, and meds, my sis and I.) Melting timepieces, I’m telling you.

I have nieces, too, who visit Chicago once a year—one teen (demure and traditional) and one pre-teen (iconoclastic from her very first breath). Both lovely, if not opposite in all but genetic ways. I have one daughter (history teacher) who is now 30 and lives out of state and one step-son (a sommeliere) who is 25 who lives in another world. There are some neighborhood kids, of course… and that’s pretty much it. Most of the other unattached people I hang with have already lost most of the hair they will ever lose and, for some consistent reason, are long term participants in one type of 12 Step Program or another–their respective youths totally exhausted; sucked dry to the bone, long ago and far, far away. In other words, I just may lack the experience needed for these incremental domestic duties I’m called upon to perform on occasion. I’m too soft a touch and frankly, don’t have the energy to exert discipline anymore. Just don’t burn down the house or torture the dog. Easy on the cat, too. Pretty expansive boundries, I would think, even for someone as indifferent and mortally aware as myself. But for some odd reason, I think of children as living on forever.

“Uncle Geno, can I have another candy bar?”

“Sure. I don’t care.”

“Can I play with your iPhone?”

“Sure. Just don’t drop it in the toilet.”

“Can I run off with a drummer in a rock band?”

“You better ask your Aunt Mona.”

“I did. She said drummers aren’t real musicians.”

“Oh yeah? Hmmm. Well, she would know…”

So we are sitting in rocking chairs on our front porch, Mona dressed as the loveliest witch of the northwest 45th Aldermanic Ward sipping a flute Chardonnay and me, of course, dressed as me, wired on my last iced coffee of the day. (True story: a group of my friends in college all dressed up as Geno for Halloween one year–leather jackets, shades, skull caps-and we all went door to door for tricks and mind altering treats. Not something I could ever put on a job application, or even Facebook, but an honor all the same on my thin resume. And I still wear that costume from time to time.) The youngest neighborhood kids start showing up by late afternoon, well before sunset. We idle on our rockers and observe as the distant future of this country, dressed up like little lions and bears, tip-toe up our spooky steps and approach the big-as-a-moon candy bowl with callow curiosity. I’ll be long passed away (burnt not buried) and forgotten before any of this tad group ever owns a scary mortgaged home of his own. My wife, of course, will live on forever on the life insurance, if not her ethereal essence.

If you don’t say anything, most kids at this pre-school age, I’ve observed, will shyly take one piece of candy from the overflowing bowl and scurry back with their diminutive snare to mamma and pappa bear proudly waiting on the sidewalk. “Very cute,” we call out, wondering if they will ever earn enough during their own awaiting lifespans to supplement our Social Security needs.

Then there are the two fisted grabbers, usually a handful of bigger kids–Third and Fourth Graders, I would guess. “Gimme Gimme Gimme,” they snort, stuffing their pockets and portfolios with paper-wrapped sugar treats and sour tricks. I imagine we can count on them to suck up any Short Sale inventory still laying around the housing market bone yard in 20 years. Good for them in their own way, I say. (Hey, don’t put it out for free or next to nothing if you’re not prepared to lose it all, or have it swooped down upon.)

And finally, there are the older kids—too old really, to be still playing this door-to-door game for mere sugar. The Hilton sisters. The Goth. The cast of High School Musical. One creepy Spirit, late in the evening, slithers up by himself, wheezing beneath his Grim Reaper cloak, and picks through the bowl with slender tendrils. “Nothing good,” he hisses.

“And who are you?” asks Mona, too southernly sweet for this dark character, even in her witch’s hat.

“Anonymous,” he oozes. Troubled teen. Troubled world.

“Dude. You’re scaring me,” I say.

“So I’ll disappear.” And he does. Into the night. Like black vapor.

“Okay. Nights over. That was an Omen,” I conclude.

“He was like Steven Hawkins without the wheelchair,” says Mona.

“If only…” I think. I wish. I say a quick prayer that he doesn’t take out his senior class with a semi-automatic one day. Or himself in a black vapor overdose…

Our First Grader is back again while her mother flies to someplace in Missouri for yet another mind numbing emergency training session on corporate lending. That’s what the banking industry needs, I’ve concluded, more emergency training sessions with single mothers. Meanwhile, the little one and I begin our new found routine as usual: Homework. Hot dogs. Walk the dog. Dissolve incriminating documents in the paper shredder. Play internet Texas Hold ‘Em. Eat ice cream. Hide Mona’s Jimmy Choos. You know, kid stuff.

I think back to when my own daughter was seven and preparing for her First Holy Communion. But wait…there’s always a catch with anything that has true Grace as collateral. Confession—almost as scary as Halloween. And not just any Confession. First Confession—the list of all sins committed (and inherited) for the first 2500 or so days of life here on mortal and venial Earth. First there’s Conception. Then Baptism. Then Confession. Then Communion. Then you start grabbing with both hands. My own daughter’s list (and promise to God to repent) was very short. “Stop hitting Julio in the head.” And… “Stop cursing.” Seriously.

I look over at our young house guest as she flies through her Math problems with eyes closed, and both hands tied behind her back. I’m fairly sure she doesn’t curse yet (or take swings at people) as she hasn’t really spent that much quality time around me according to how I perceive Dali’s Persistence of Time. I wonder if the kid is smart enough to count cards as I book our next Vegas getaway on the laptop. I do the math and figure I’ll be as dead as old George Washington by the time she’s 52. Her mother too, more than likely. It’ll just be her and Mona then, drinking wine from flutes, and having the time of their eternal lives.