Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Wanda #2

Hey Vic!  Y’ever take a pregnancy test.  How accurate do you think they are?  How many do you think you need to take if you get an answer each time?  (beat) No, I didn’t go to the doctor.  What the heck, it’s only been a few days.  Hey, don’t forget my drink. 
(take out doll)
I can’t be a parent.  Are you kidding me?  Seriously, no one would trust me with a child, and if they did, they should not blame me for the condition the kid comes back in and the things he or she has learned.  You know some people tell me that I should have a kid, especially if I’m selfish, they say that I’ll change.  I don’t think so.  I feel ok to hold the kid, but when they’re fresh outta the oven, I always think I’m gonna snap their neck if I don’t support it just so.  That and as they get older I would be the worst.  I would want, no wait, I would demanemand and expect perfection and it would be brutal.  The child would be expected to be an awesome athlete.  I would be the loud  obnoxious parent yelling in the stands.  I know I would.  And what if, god forbid, this spawn of mine did not live up to all the hype?  I would most certainly be a mean son-of-a-bitch.  Which is just wrong.  A child should not have to be live up to my unheathly expectations.  And it is by no means living the live I would have wished on me, but simply carrying on the Big Canoe legacy. 
(beat)  Vic!  refill please.  Huh?  No I haven’t told the father yet.  Because, I’m not even sure if I’m pregnant so why would I want to get his hopes up?  God, yes!  he so wants to be a dad it’s crazy.  I mean I love kids too, but he’s just crazy for ‘em.  I think he’s the only one in his family that doesn’t have kids and at family holidays he’s the one keeping the kids entertained.  Me I usually make friends with the host to ensure my wine glass does not go empty the entire night.  His family is some crazy Irish Catholic family.  So you have to take that into account as well when you’re mixing up all those genetic juices right?   I mean come on, him Irish, me Indian, poor kid doesn’t have a chance, mind as well start ‘em off with whiskey from the bottle.  Good thing I’m drinking. haha.
Who am I kidding?  What if after incubating this tiny person for 9 months out of my life.  Having him or her reek havoc on my body, the baby comes out…well you know…not tan?  not brown?    That would make me feel uneasy…is that wrong?  Then when you get down to the paperwork of the kid, what happens then?  Will he or she still be indian?  Then if they don’t regain that latte color, they’ll be walking around like those people that bother me so much now.  Indians are brown! 
When you pick up one of those photography books, with photos from the turn of the 20th century.  Stoic nearly black weathered faces stare back at you.  Varying lengths of dark black hair, cover the coal eyes of the client.  The…I would say proud, but I don’t think they were…the quiet…no, the…the…the prisoner, yeah, since they are rarely smiling, they sit as if posing for a mug shot in all their feather and leather glory.  But always a dark face staring back at your from the pages of history.
But what if my little face come out…well pale…will I love him or her as much?  and what if I don’t?  huh?  what if I can’t?  what do I do then?  Fuck!  This is exactly why I didn’t want to have children.  So I wouldn’t have to be faced with these ethical dilemmas.  The wondering, the decision making.  Fuck.  I do not have unsafe, unprotected sex.  How could this possibly happen to me?  Fuck. 
What?  Are you kidding me?  Of course I haven’t told Charlie?  Have you not heard a word I have said?  I would be a crazy alcoholic racist parent.   Having that conversation with Charlie, heck no.  I hate it when he cries and I don’t want to make him cry.  Of course he loves me.  He loves me a lot.  Which makes it all the more painful I were to actually be…well you know…
Victor!  ‘nother round!