I was in the family room, watching TV—a horror film. Sigourney Weaver was being tracked by the Alien. She--the Alien--was a yellow toothed, stringy-spit, mucus-dripper who planted it’s young inside any handy human being and then, when the young matured, it exited from the human's stomach. The human died.
I was folding a whole laundry basket of mate-less socks. Folding socks didn’t take any mental capacity and I didn’t have any extra to spare.
Enter Kraut, about twelve years old. Kraut didn’t walk; he glided. He was also invisible. He could go anywhere in the house and Phil and I were always startled to see him there.
“Where did you come from?” we would ask.
He always looked baffled and shrugged his shoulders. He just walked in, like any normal, noiseless, invisible kid.
So Kraut--the noiseless one, was behind me. Naturally, I didn’t know he was there. Kraut notices the Putt Putt Drill, just sitting there, as if it were fate.
The Putt Putt Drill was a toy, built of orange plastic in the shape of a drill and it made an irritating burring noise. It’s the kind of toy grandparents buy for the grandkids. With continual use of toys like the Putt Putt Drill the parents nerves slowly disintegrate until the toy disappears—mysteriously. This usually happens exactly one day after the parent’s permanent facial twitch appears.
Kraut picks up the irresistible Putt Putt Drill.
I pick up a white sock with a red band and match it, slowly, with a white sock with a blue band, two sizes smaller.
The Alien opens its sharp-toothed mouth and drips slime.
Sigourney sweats--I could say she perspired but, let's face it, she was sweating. She had a sweaty look the whole movie.
Kraut glides behind me.
I slowly reach into the laundry basked for a double handful of socks.
The Alien knows Sigourney is there and moves in for the kill.
Sigourney sweats more vigorously.
Kraut puts the Putt Putt Drill next to my ear, not the drill end, just the noise part.
I hold my breath.
The Alien is poised. The time is now. Sigourney is going to die.
Kraut pushes the trigger.
Socks fly in the air like startled pigeons.
Kraut snorts in a very satisfied, "I gotcha" sort of way and disappears, fast as lightening, upstairs—out of reach—where he displays his youthful mirth.
Sigourney defeats the Alien.
Socks settle on me like snow.
And that is why parents loose their minds. Their kids drive then to insanity. In. One. Creative. Way. After. Another.