“I want that!” screamed the kids, trying to out-jump each other. Another advertisement shot positively charged electrons into the impressionable. “Me too! I want that!” a second child screeched in a third’s face, point-blank. It would have seemed funny if the whole scene wasn’t muted. To the little girl staring out the window it was unnerving. The garage had yet to reopen for the day.
She practiced singing “It’s Log!” so she could make father smile. Eating breakfast together and watching their favorite cartoon left an imprint she could follow; father was her Powdered Toast Man and took his comedy seriously. The younger kids didn’t get to watch this animation. She was special. Father worked overtime not because he wanted to avoid his wife, like his managers, but the debt collectors who knocked after sundown. She got good making herself scarce. She had good role models. She was told her father died in an automobile accident before she knew him. This new father gave them everything he had until there was nothing left. The parents wondered why she would wake crying, but she didn’t know either.
Recently the neighbors got a dog and father couldn’t sleep well. He had a habit of taking naps after working so hard, leaving barely any time to entertain. Resolute, the little girl knew something needed to happen. So, one afternoon she grabbed a stick and raised it above the yapping mutt’s snout, brow pleading. She didn’t want to hurt the bitch, but this had to be done. She couldn’t understand what the dog was saying as it shrank away. “I want that!” the house screamed, point blank. She looked at the stick slick with blood. She knew blood was always a bad sign. She rediscovered nausea and lost breakfast over the chain links.
Her shadow was overtaken by another before it got dark. She applied what she learned from the dog, but couldn’t keep her eyes dry. She lost her expression the moment the figure brandished an instrument more menacing than any belt or cooking spoon. It was big. It was heavy. It was wood. Father was not the source of punishment; the garage had yet to reopen for the day.
After, mother got into the habit of saying just what a happy family they were. She had the perfect marriage and wonderful little ones. She implored those she caught in conversation that her husband shared her devotion to a fulfilling life, wielding an enthusiasm rivaling that of a cat stuck in a jar of nip. Being a homebody, however, mother had to recite what happiness was to the kids. Mother even told the little girl how sweet the fridge magnet message left for her was, but the little girl wasn’t the one who had arranged it.
Since the incident, the little girl was no longer able to share a laugh or toast with her hero; father’s work demanded that he now come in before dawn. This, coupled with the home projects that kept him out of the house, undermined the little girl’s attempts to see father. She couldn’t stop from observing him though, she felt she had more to learn from someone so committed to his efforts.
She waited for the perfect moment, or rather, the opportunity presented itself. For what, she couldn’t detect. When the parents went out of town for their bi-weekly shopping spree and made her babysit, she locked the siblings in their room and wondered what to do. She had the house to herself and the nearest shopping center was over fifty miles away. She started with her habit of window dressing, but couldn’t place why anymore. She went to the parent’s room and took it all in. She inventoried things she hadn’t seen before. She bypassed what little jewelry mother had inherited and a wig she had never seen mother use. After smelling a single perfume, she settled on mother’s nail polish. She wanted to make a statement, though she didn’t know what she wanted to say.
She fixed herself up leftovers and went to work. The television was still on from when the parents left, but she was practiced getting past it. The white noise made her feel something was happening though. She took her time and painted each toe with deliberate care. When she finished, she admired her craftsmanship, contrasting against the now darkened window and the irradiated television, when a familiar theme song buzzed in. It was her favorite cartoon. Her heart skipped and her body jumped, spilling the polish and resurfacing the coffee table. The coffee table father made for mother. Her heart skipped to a different beating as she wondered what to do. How could she be so careless?
The little girl’s mind raced. She knew she had to act fast. A wash cloth failed her, so she buried it in the trash. Crying, she then tried rubbing alcohol. She heard someone yell when she saw that the table paint came away with the alcohol. She snapped out of focus when she looked back at the television. A foreign rage welled within her and she stopped crying. She knew she was better than bad. In a weird way, she felt good. She lost track of time as reality settled in. Still, she had to set things right.
She used the garage key she recently discovered and retrieved father’s hammer. She skimmed a strange wavelength, surfacing emotions she wasn’t sure were hers. When she realized what she had done, the hammer lay on the floor, even though her hands were fists. There, in the center of the smashed television, was a large red button. She broke out into a sweat. She knew she wasn’t supposed to press this button, compelled by her favorite animation. However, “That’s the history eraser button, you fool!” was drowned out by “I want that!” She could no longer help herself.
When the parents got home she blamed the destruction on the little ones, something that had never occurred to her to do before. She then rushed to father’s arms, fresh tears clinging to her lashes, and explained how much she loved him. Mother was still coming to grips with the ruined entertainment. Father’s eyes watered and mother began sniffling, too. These waterworks were genuine, but sprung from different taps.
In the end, the little girl had managed to make father pay attention to her again. He had to drop his other priorities so she could have a room of her own. It would be upstairs overlooking the back alley once the ventilation was fixed. It was the first and last time she would appreciate his exhaustion. She hurriedly navigated father out of her room as soon as he had finished furnishing it. She knew what happiness was, or could be, now. She had found her own cartoon to laugh at. Perhaps one day she could have a detached dog house of her own, too. Now alone, she no longer cried upon waking. The girl became overjoyed in the possibilities fiction could bring her; the floodgates of imagination opened once she noticed the signal had been altered.