What is it about Whitey that makes us want to work for him? I can't stand him. He's out there, everywhere, making us feel ugly, making us feel low and insignificant and worthless. I'll tell you, my friend Shaquille, her boyfriend, he left her for a white woman. We don't appreciate who we are, what we've got.

I guess I just got mad right now because I just saw that guy – that hunk – who passes by my window most days. Wears a suit, real classy, or else some hip threads. He comes in every couple of months, buys the Journal of Translation Studies and the Applied Linguistics Quarterly, and Captain Marvel. Except for the Marvel, seems like he should be a college professor. But I just call him The Babysitter.

Aw, sorry to be such a drag. It just hacks me off to see a righteous brother like that working as a home care aide, or a babysitter, or whatever the hell you call it. He passes by my window, like I said; sometimes mornings, sometimes afternoons, and he's always leading along this white guy by the arm. Not bad to look at, for Whitey, but he's a retard. Real nice threads on him too, but a retard. I figure some rich white family with too much money and not enough heart to take care of their own, they hired the brother to take care of the skeleton in their closet. Can't have a retard from a rich white family in an asylum.

we know the formula is in Scott's head—where is he?

—take a hike

You will tell us, eventually—

—you know that's the one thing I can't tell you

On sunny days, when it's not too muggy, the gorgeous one takes the spaz for a walk. He always has his arm linked in the sick guy's, with his other one wrapped around it too, holding onto that white hand tight, like maybe he'd fall without him or something, and he leads him along the Delaware. Typical, the hunk takes real good care of the retard – us colored folks always taking care of whites. They walk real close, and the white guy smiles a lot, and looks at the righteous one, and he smiles, too, a little sad but he smiles. And the white one mouths something, it looks like 'Sorry' but who can tell from this distance? Only says the one thing, closest I can figure.

Scotty, Scotty, Scotty, Scotty, Scotty…

—what I wouldn't give—

hurts—can't take any more—

a jolt, then white noise

Scotty, Scotty, Scotty, Scotty, Scotty…

Some days, they stop and sit on the bench outside my window. For the view of the river, I'm guessing. They sit there looking at the water and holding each other like a pair of lovebirds. The headcase puts his arm round the babysitter's waist and leans against him. Then, get this, the babysitter doesn't push him off, he scoots real close, slips an arm around the retard and pulls him in, and reaches out his other hand to pull his head down so it's resting on his shoulder. Then the hunk leans his head down to rest on top of the spaz's head, and his hand comes up and he'll rub his back, massage the back of his neck, or stroke his hair.

And they'll sit there, holding each other like that, for hours, just watching the Delaware flow by. It would be kinda cute if it weren't weird.

he rushes in

electrodes ripped away

too late

eyes vacant in bleeding sockets

—what he wouldn't give—

On the righteous brother's days off, the retard gets taken for walks by the housekeeper. I'm guessing she's the housekeeper. Really wiry little older lady. I call her Aunt Jemima 'cause she let the rich family boss her into taking care of the retard when the babysitter's not there. It's different. I gotta admit, he walks along with her gentle-like. She'll buy ice-creams from Al on the corner, and they'll walk along, eating 'em. He's not so retarded he can't lick a cone. But he doesn't smile so much when he's with her. With the babysitter, he smiles, like it made him happy just to see his face.

he's gone—

needs to be committed, they say.

as long as he's committed—

Kelly won't be

So here he is again. Walking arm-in-arm with the retard down the river, smiling at him, talking soft and sweet about something, like the other one could understand him. I don't know, maybe whitey does, 'cause his face lights up and he looks at the hunk like he's the most beautiful sight in the world, like he could be happy for the rest of his life just to look at him. And it's the wildest thing ever. Because Babysitter doesn't look like he's bummed. He looks, I know this is weird to say, happy, like he's out walking with a friend instead of dragging some lame-ass retard around. When he looks at that whitey's face, he smiles. It's sad – I'd be sad if my job was to drag a spaz along the river every day – but he'll smile at him like his firstborn son, like he adores him. And then he touches his cheek; he's always touching him, never misses a chance to rub his back, pat his arm, touch his face, ruffle his hair, something. I didn't think a babysitter had to do that. But then, everything is weird about this caretaker and his retard.

I don't know about that guy. I just don't know.

Author's Note: I feel compelled to note that I am aware this is highly idealized. In actual fact, I think (even if they hired a nurse, which I believe they would have to), the heartbreak of seeing Kelly reduced, for all intents and purposes, to a pet, would probably drive Scotty into an early grave, or lead him to distance himself from that extreme of agony which, I think, would be beyond his endurance. But this is how it came out. Depressing, but sunshine and kittens compared to the reality.