I don't own hey arnold
Chapter 7 Bob Comes Home
Daddy was never a very patient person. He expected so much from our family; the Pataki name had to be synonymous with success. To daddy, Helga never lived up to his high expectations. Helga's disinterest, in following in my footsteps, caused him to give up her. He never felt a reason to bond with his youngest daughter if she wasn't bringing glory to the Pataki name. I witnessed this every time I came home. Looking back, I wish I would have had the courage to speak out against his mistreatment and neglect of Helga. I was simply trying my best to keep peace in the household, naively thinking it would make my sister's environment better; I was too afraid to upset my parents. I realize now that I'm just as responsible as my parents for the neglect of Helga. Allowing it to continue, I was an enabler.
-From the diary of Olga Pataki
I'm in my own world, lost in the sepia toned music Arnold assembled carefully for me. The sound's dusty amber color filters through the air; crackling haunted voices sing of Depression Era despair. My mind swims in honey. The moans of regret and lost love mirror my emotional dependency for Arnold. I've never heard music like this before; it speaks to me in ways I never imagined songs could. He loves old music; jazz owns his heart, but he chose the blues for me. This is his way of showing me a part of himself. This is something he knew I would love. I sink deeper and deeper. The whirlpool pulls me down closer to Arnold's world. I love how he knows me, that he could speak to me through music without being present. Telepathic bond.
Unfortunately, my momentary musical communion with Arnold is interrupted by a heated argument downstairs; the beeper king is home. As usual, Miriam bears the brunt of Big Bob's verbal abuse; she is the easiest target. Bob is probably upset by the condition of the living room. I stop the tape and immediately change into some clean clothes, denim shorts and an old raglan. Grabbing my bailout backpack, I open the bedroom door and walk into the hallway; the yelling grows louder in volume from this vantage point. This is no way to live.
I'm hoping to make a quick and unnoticed escape as Bob goes on another rampage about the current disarray of the house. "What is it you Miriam?! I go out and work to support you and the girl. Why can't I come home to a clean house?! How hard is that?! What do you even do all day, besides drink yourself into a COMA?!" That one careless word choice hit Miriam like a stone cold sober slap to the face; she breaks down into unintelligible sobs. Miriam could usually handle Bob's explosive temper and demeaning insults. She would always shrug them off with the help of a high blood alcohol content; she never let it bother her. But with her husband inadvertently mentioning Olga's current condition, the floodgates burst open; her calm apathetic nature is shattered. The beeper king, with all his infinite wisdom, looks confused at the scene unfolding before him. Not understanding what is happening, his features soften; the earlier anger becomes replaced by concern. A few seconds go by and Big Bob finally realizes the implications of what he said. His demeanor changes completely; it's one of those rare moments he feels actual remorse. It's one of those rare moments he shows tenderness and compassion towards his wife by embracing her. United as one, their shared grief brings them together.
This is my cue to make an unnoticed escape. Quietly sneaking down the stairs, I'm almost home free. But when I don't want them to notice me, they always do. They turn their heads toward my direction; all eyes are on me. I have disturbed their brief loving moment with my presence; in my parents eyes, I should have never been born. Bob lets go of Miriam and gives me a disapproving scowl. "Where do you think you're going little missy?" I return a scowl back and reply, "Out." Not accepting my answer, he argues. "No way, you're only ten. No daughter of mine is going out and walking the streets." Not knowing my age only adds fuel to the fire. "I'm thirteen Bob." "Whatever...look, you're still not going anywhere and that's final." "I can do what I want and I'm leaving now." That last remark causes him to shake with anger; the veins in his neck start pulsing. Our battle of wills becomes almost physical, an embodiment of stubborn uncompromising stares. In a serious yet calm voice, Bob says, "I'm going to give you to the count of three to get your little smart ass back upstairs. I support this family and you'll do as I say." We stand glaring at each other, neither of us backing down. "One." Our scowls and crossed armed stance mirror one another. "Two." Before he can get to three, I sprint quickly for the front door; the beeper king follows behind my trail with pounding footsteps.
I frantically open the door and make it outside before he can trap me in the house. Bob's booming voice reverberates through the block as he chases me down the sidewalk. Luckily, youth is on my side. Big Bob might be built like a tank, but he is completely out of shape; all that bone crushing strength won't help him out in the open. After a few more blocks, he finally gives up the pursuit and yells for me not to come back. A few more words about me being worthless echo into the air as the beeper king goes back home. I keep running until my lungs feel raw. I keep running until all my muscles burn.
Out of breath, I decide to stop and find myself at p.s 118. The past will always follow you. Panting, I take the time to catch my breath while observing my old elementary stomping ground. If nostalgia is a sickness, I'm terminally ill. I walk across the blacktop as the scorching summer sun cooks it; black tar oozes from beneath the earth. Bending down and pulling some of it from the ground, I roll the warm gooey substance between my fingers; the texture and smell bring back familiar childhood memories. Life wasn't necessarily better then, but memories tend to take on a fuzzy glow as time passes; they appear brighter in comparison to the present. If nostalgia is a sickness, I'm terminally ill. Walking towards the swings, I sit down on one and let my feet push me back and forth. Flicking away the little ball of black tar, both of my hands wrap around the rust colored chains; their metallic scent fills my nose. I begin to swing as high as gravity will allow. The chains keep me from leaving the earth; their clinking sound rings out every time my body is pulled back down. Tilting back, my blonde hair catches the breeze; for the moment, I am free. I finally let go and fly out of the swing; gravity always wins as I land on my feet.
Heat waves rise over every horizon in sight. I let my subconscious guide me through the neighborhood; it will always lead me somewhere. With Big Bob back home, I need to find a place to stay for a night or two. There is no way around it; I can't deal with him living under the same roof. At least he never stays for long; the beeper king can't handle the pathetic state of our family. There won't be any more concertos played by Olga, unless the beeping from her life support counts. Miriam will continue to drink herself closer to the grave everyday. The family is in complete disarray. The temperature keeps rising. A heat wave wraps the city in a blanket of one hundred and seven degree weather. Sweat pours from my skin and soaks my clothes; the taste of salt is on my tongue. It hasn't been this hot since I was nine years old. I remember a whole mob of kids, myself included, attempting to flip an ice cream truck because of the heat. It can make people crazy; in my mind, I imagine people huddling around an air conditioner hoping for relief. I've always loved the smell of window air conditioners. I used to put my face up to the one at my grandmother's house in the summer; it had a snowflake logo on the panel that promised comfort.
Hillwood remains stuck in a dry season; no rain has fallen the entire summer so far. As I walk, the soles of my shoes stick to the pavement. The sun continues its assault upon everything in sight; its blinding yellow light bleaches my vision. A block of abandoned buildings wear the scars of water damage; their windows stay dark and empty. Plywood boards covered in elaborate graffiti block the doorways. Not a single soul can be seen on the sidewalk; weeds and dead brown grass sprout from the cracks. On this path, I walk alone. Bent and dented street signs decorate the cornors; they seem to lead to nowhere.
A few more blocks down, I come to the community pool; it's packed with people. They all had the same idea but, no one seems satisfied as I watch them. My hands cling to the chain link barrier between us. Their faces, greased with sunscreen, contain no joy. They all quietly suffer in swimming pool purgatory; their souls, waiting in limbo, crave an afterlife of cool water. I move on leaving them all behind. Before long, I find myself on Vine street; the boarding house comes into view and I feel like I'm finally home. All my wandering leads to the same place. No matter how far I stray, I always come back.
Phil had the place renovated, after the flood, with some insurance money. The building looks slightly more weathered than before, but to me it's a symbol of hope in this desolate neighborhood. I immediately start climbing up the fire escape; old habits die hard. My heart feels heavy as my hands grip the rough rusted metal leading to the roof. If nostalgia is a sickness, I'm terminally ill. The view from the roof remains incredible, even now; the entire expanse of the city can be seen from here. It almost stretches into infinity like the ocean. The poetry flows naturally from my lips. "I stand upon the roof's concrete shore belittled by the expanse of creation. My eyes follow the horizon into the great void of infinity. I stand here alone. I stand in great anticipation for your eventual return. In that way, time is cruel. When time is meaningless, eternity begins and I turn to stone. I face time alone."
My soliloquy is interrupted by the sound of someone opening Arnold's skylight window. Panic takes over my body as I freeze in place. Phil comes into my peripheral vision and I relax enough to get angry. Turning to face him, he has a knowing look in his eyes; Phil must have heard my rambling on the rooftop. "What the hell do you think you're doing sneaking up on my like that you creep?!" With an almost toothless grin, he smiles. "Well if it isn't Arnold's cranky little girlfriend with the pink bow and the one eyebrow." He has drop on me; I need to come up with an excuse fast. This is beyond embarrassing. Nervously, I say, "Oh heh...I was just uhh...well I was...checking yeah checking to see if the fire escape was safe. You can't be too careful these days. But it seems good...it will be safe...see I'm up here after all." Phil looks at me intently while scratching his chin. "You don't say," He replies with a knowing grin. "Don't get any ideas about me coming here because I miss Arnold or anything," I say defensively. He starts laughing pretty hard while slapping his knees. It's obvious that he knows why I am here. "Hey what's so funny bucko? Do I amuse you or something?" I cross my arms and scowl in defiance. Phil quiets down and says, "Oh to be young again."
Giving up the charade, I sit down on the ledge and sigh; my hands cover my face. Arnold's grandpa walks closer to me. "What's the matter. You having trouble with your family?" I stay quiet and Phil continues talking. "The shortman told me you have trouble at home. He was always worried about you and your family. Heck, knowing your dad, it doesn't surprise me. And with your sister's condition, it probably makes it worse." I remain silent. "I wish I could give you some advice, but I have no idea. You're more than welcome to stay here for awhile in Arnold's room; I know the shortman won't mind." Phil starts to walk back inside and I break the silence. "My life's in disarray, Phil." Sighing, he looks back in my direction and says, "who's isn't?"
This is no way to live.
The songs she was listening to were: "hard time killing floor blues" by skip james and "goodnight irene" by leadbelly
