Who am I?

Who am I?

 

At the Bank today I explain to the teller, “I need to withdraw some money in order to deposit it in my daughter’s account in another bank.”

It is a harmless lie, frivolous really.

But the question is, why do I see fit to lie? A silly thought goes through my mind. I don’t want the teller of TD Bank to feel slighted that I am taking money from his bank and putting it in another bank where my checking account is located. So I make up the story about my daughter needing money.

Seriously? That's weird.

                    A Normal Person

Still, I feel that I am a normal person. People seem to think so at least. They see me on the street; they say hello, smile maybe. Why? Because people are friendly. 

And I'm normal.

However, I do have a strange trait or two. For example I like to save impractical things. High on the list are the remnants of do-it-yourself tasks: the worn out headlamp that I replaced in my VW, the replaced lock mechanism from the back door. A scribbled note from a grandchild. 

Please! Am I a hoarder? 

                    Tuesday Morning

Now it is 7:30 AM, a Tuesday.  Hoarder is sleeping. I hear the front door rattling. A morning visitor? Still in bed, I guess that a child is staying home from school, which means early duty for me.

I throw off the covers, stumble to the door. Daughter Ashley is already in the living room with Johnny, 5, in tow. Ashley positions Johnny on the couch, turns on the TV. Finds the cartoon channel. "Hello John," I say. 

No answer. Ash turns to leave for work.

“He may not eat,” she says as she goes out. “Try to give him something.”

That’s it for instructions, except for this final word, “I don’t think he’s really sick.”

No comment from me. I shout, “Have a good one,” as she drives away.

I fetch a blanket and cover John on the couch. He’s fixated on the TV.

I go about my morning routine, coffee and newspaper. After a half hour or so John makes a request.

                  Playing Store
“Do you have a cash register?” he says, “and some bills?”

Cash register? Bills?

I think I actually saw a toy cash register somewhere in the last few days. Had to be in the playroom in the basement I tell myself. I trudge down the cellar stairs.

Voila! The gods are with me. "This is why I save things," I tell myself. I cart the plastic cash register up the stairs. Halfway up a voice startles me. The voice says, “Welcome back.”

Huh?

It's the cash register speaking. Sounds female I think, guessing that I pressed something to trigger a recorded greeting. I take a moment to see if I pressed a button.

Forget it. Toys, talking toys, are weird these days.

I hand the register over to John. “Do you have credit cards, “John asks, “and bills?”

I give him old cards, a file folder of paper scraps (bills I explain) and a coffee can filled with saved coins. He busies himself for an hour, opening and closing the register, putting coins in the drawer, coloring and applying duct tape to the file folder.

The morning passes. I make lunch. We head for the library. Soon it’s pick-up time for the others, Eddie and Emma. The afternoon glides by.  

Straightening up that evening at home I survey the living room. It’s a mess. I arrange the “play store” paraphernalia - papers, coins, crayons, the cash register and a roll of duct tape – more neatly as one might clean up a work desk at the end of the day, except that I merely shift these items around, leaving them on the floor, at the foot of an easy chair. I think of Johnny playing there all morning which brings a smile. I decide to leave the toys in their spot, on the rug by the chair.   

                    Toys on the Floor
A week has passed now. The toys are still on the rug, waiting for the next visit from John. Or so I pretend.

I like the toys there, which makes me wonder – why is that? But I know why.