A Tale of Two Sitters

In which the author hires a babysitter and gets a whole lot more…

     Back when I was a night nurse I used to offer free room and board in exchange for babysitting.  There was no real “sitting” involved, the boys were age 6 and 13 and were asleep when I left for work at 10:30 pm.  The previous girls had shown up with references, one was even a certified Life Guard and they each stayed for about 6 months, saving enough money to get their own apartments. When the last one moved on I put an ad in the Pennysaver and the next night a young couple showed up, rather desperate for a place for the girl to stay.

     “Portia” was 18, new to this country from the West Indies and accompanied by Robbie, or as we soon got used to calling him: “Robbie-mon.”  That was what Portia always called to him, as in “Robbie-mon, bring me tea!” The desperation was because Portia was due to have a baby in a month or so.

     Of course I should have sent them elsewhere as it was a small rented house and I had already given up my bedroom for the sitter’s use,  but I remembered another famous couple who were denied room at the inn and I was not about to shunt this young girl off to some stable.

     Robbie-mon lived with his parents who had made many sacrifices to get him into college where he was a varsity soccer player. He was a true gentleman and very courtly in his behavior to Portia, who was much more street wise than he.  It seemed his parents disapproved of the relationship as there was another man in contention for the honor of being the baby daddy.

      Portia was sophisticated about all the wrong things.  Being an Island person, she often felt cold and would crank up the thermostat without asking me, then open the window for fresh air. Deterring such behavior took much careful explanation and she was slow to accept the fact that we were not about to have tropical temperatures in January, in Huntington Station.

     The first night I went to work and left her with the kids she was almost hysterical. “You’re leaving me? Who is going to take care of me?”  It was then that I realized I had made a terrible, although Biblically inspired, error in taking her in. It was like that movie “The Bicycle Thief” (a classic of Italian neo-realism, discuss- among- yourselves, when the guy looking for the thief, becomes thief) and I was now her babysitter. I told her the kids were there if she needed anything, all she really had to do was make sure the house did not catch on fire.

     Soon I met the other man, a scary fellow who was some kind of big deal in Crown Heights.   He was known as “The Scorpion” and in tribute he had tattooed a likeness of a scorpion across his 4 front teeth.  He once asked me rather obliquely if I could store “product” in my house, as he was expanding his business, whatever that was. He offered to pay me, but I refused, remembering countless episodes of “The Honeymooners” where things had turned out very badly for Ralph and Norton when they attempted to get rich quick.  I told Portia that neither he nor any of his Brooklyn buddies were allowed in the house, only Robbie-mon.

     Finally the night arrived when I got a call at work that the baby was about to be born.  Robbie-mon showed up at the hospital with Portia and my younger son, who promptly fell asleep in the nurse’s station, since it was 3 am.  Later in the afternoon (any night shift worker will tell you that the days don’t separate, there is just one long daynight) we all went to see the little guy who was named rather aristocratically, “Ricardo.”  

     Never having been a night owl, not even having a passing familiarity with a certain Mr. Johnny Carson, I was always asleep by eleven. This made night shift doubly hard for me.  I employed many ruses to try to stay awake on the short drive home such as listening to horrible music (thank you WBAB!), keeping all the windows open and even singing. When I would get home I would get the kids off to school and crash hard.

     However, now that Ricardo was there, I found I had new responsibilities. Portia simply did not wake up when he cried.  She was not tuned in to him at all. I heard his every little noise and now had to stay awake to take care of him. I was exhausted and a little fearful about the paternity issue.  On one hand we were rooting for sweet Robbie-mon but it was becoming clearer day by day that he was not going to be the dad. This was long before DNA testing or Jerry Springer.  It seemed likely that when little Ricardo’s teeth came in, they might even have a tiny scorpion on them.

     With sadness, Robbie-mon gave up and stopped coming over, not that we saw any more of the Scorpion.  Wisely, Portia gave the baby to her mom to raise in the West Indies. She thought she could stay with me and “babysit” but often did not come home at night.  I tried very hard to make her understand that if I did not work, I did not get paid, and then could not pay rent and we  would not be able to keep living in our beloved little house.  It was too much to ask of her so she left, disappearing into Crown Heights and we never saw her again.

     Robbie-mon stopped by once or twice to express his sorrow over his lost love but eventually we both came to realize he had dodged a bullet, maybe even a real one, thanks to Portia’s departure.

     Following is a recipe taught to me by Portia, I think of her every time I make this.

     Take 1 big can of salmon, cut up 2 stalks of scallions, add one large cut up tomato and simmer down ( play “ Simmer Down” by The Wailers, while you’re at it) After 20 minutes or so, add 2 sprigs of thyme and simmer some more, serve over rice or with ardo bread.  Serving suggestion: room temp Guinness Beer.