Latchkey Kids

Since my mother was a single parent of three, the majority of my childhood was spent locked in various apartments in San Antonio with my two little brothers (see photo to left) sans parental supervision. We were the classic example of latchkey kids.

In order to bring some order to our lives, my mother created a task list that she posted to the refrigerator every morning. It had three columns with each of our names on it: Dan, Chris, and Nate. Chris and I would be given more difficult chores such as vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, or the dishes. Golden Boy Nate was the youngest and deemed a “gift from God” was always assigned light duty (i.e, dusting, organizing his MicroMachines or ThunderCats, etc…).

Being the oldest at thirteen, my mission was the same everyday: Round up the troops at the bus stop, escort them home, get everyone inside, lock all the doors, eat a snack, and complete the assigned duties by the time Mom got home.

Quite often our confinement became our personal purgatory similar to Jean-Paul Sartré’s No Exit. We became each other’s demon and tormented each other. Chris and I would haggle over responsibilities. We’d spend hours negotiating a deal of who would do what. Nate never had a problem with his “chores”. It always enraged us of his special treatment. Chris pulled rank on Nate and told him he was going to dust and that Nate had to vacuum. This did not sit well with Nate and he refused to take out the trash and started to dust. Chris started to chase Nate around the house. I intervened by chasing Chris. Mayhem ensued and the apartment became a pay-per-view cage match. Time sped up and six o’clock crept up on us. The instant we heard the key in the door our hearts stopped. A mutual alliance was formed and a silent treaty was made with frightened eye contact.

We felt like Ann Frank’s family as the Gestapo had discovered their hideout and the sound of their boots could be heard on the wooden steps leading up to the attic. As we were untangling our bodies from various choke holds, Nate somehow fell onto a lamp. It fell back against the wall and shattered the moment Mom opened the door.

“Hello, boys…Mommy is…” her chirpy salutation faded into questioning rage, “What the hell happen here?!”

The place looked as if a Category 3 hurricane had swept through it. The broken lamp became the center of attention.

“Who broke the lamp?” she barked out.

Chris immediately answered, “Nate…(glancing at Nate with a sneer) and I think he did it just for spite!”

“Is this true Nathan?” she asked with disappointment to her favorite son.

“What!? Spite? Spite who? I don’t even know Spite?” he tearfully cried in confusion.

I muttered under my breath, “Spite Lee.”