Meet Slick.

August 27, 2011

When it comes to social grace, I fall somewhere between Miss Piggy and … well, no, that’s about right, actually. My mouth often gets ahead of my brain, and I end up lying in bed hours later reliving my awkward blurting again and again. And again. Marlon Brando? Did I really say your baby looked like Marlon Brando?

Shut up, mouth. What. Was. I. Thinking.

Yeah, I know. I was thinking your baby looked like Marlon BrandoAnd the little station agent that sends these thoughts back up to my brain for retooling apparently agreed. Jackass.
So last week, I met this kid. We will call him Slick. Because it is almost, but not, his actual name, and I’m not sure what government agency will knock on my door if I talk about minors by name on a blog without parental permission. (The internet wasn’t invented when I took Civics.) (And now, according to anyone under 25, I am older than God.) (And, according to anyone under 15, “What is ‘civics’?”) Slick is this 8 year old kid that hangs out at our new neighbors-to-be’s house (got that? new house, next door, meet Slick). He’s a cute, skinny little fellow who kind of reminds me of that kid from the Rascals? Bean sprout? Pigpen? Tipsy? You know, the kid with the freckles and the swoop of hair on top. Errmm… Wikipedia says the Rascals were a band (what the heck, brain?!), so nevermind. Anyway.
I was hauling another armload of our worldly possessions junk across the street, and I heard a voice shout “You’ve been moving that stuff all day!” To which, I replied that he was correct, and that I evidently have too much stuff. (Ha, ha. If you only knew, kid.)
Two minutes later, Slick is at the door holding one of Peach’s dresses that must have fallen on my way across the street.
“Here,” he says, “I think you must have dropped this.” Then he  introduces himself.
“I’m Slick,” he says, and we shake hands.
He tells me about himself, where he’s from, why he’s visiting at the house next door. He introduces his older brother, and we have a very pleasant, rather adult conversation. Slick is charming. Utterly self-possessed and polite. He’s not shy, but he’s not obnoxious, either. He’s just… slick. And I notice he’s got a twinkle in his eye that makes me think that he knows exactly how to talk himself out of a jam. Next thing I know, he’s offering to help me move. Now, I’m not a big woman, but I tower over this kid, and I could carry Slick upstairs in one arm with a load of laundry in the other. He could probably have handled my yarn. Or my boxes of unspun fleece. But I’d already moved those boxes, and I was working on boxes of kitchen items that were big enough to hold two Slicks, plus my dog.
“That’s a really nice offer,” I tell him, “but I don’t think I’m organized enough to have you help me.”
“That’s okay! You could just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
Who raised this kid, and can she please give me lessons? While she’s at it, maybe she can teach that jackhole in my head a thing or two?
As it turned out, while we were “negotiating,” Peach’s babysitter came by to tell me that my time was just about up. So I told Slick that I really appreciated his offer, but it looked like I was done for the day. At this point, he puts both his hands on my arm, leans in, and says earnestly,  “But just because you’re done moving, doesn’t mean have to be.”
Slick, I hope we see you around.

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