scrap post
This is a scrap from a fic that was supposed to be about Kyle babysitting, and having Stan sneak over to hook up. Not going to finish it, so, posting the little bit I have. Enjoy!
It had been on a Wednesday, picking her son Ike up from Hebrew school, that Sheila Broflovski had fallen into a conversation with Moira Steinmetz. Moira was the secretary of the synagogue sisterhood, an organization in which Mrs. Broflovski had never been involved. She recalled with dread muggy summer afternoons on the linoleum floor of the First Conservative Congregation of Central Newark, waiting for her mother to conclude her weekly game of mahjong. For hours, these games went on, leaving Sheila and her sister nothing to do but wilt in the heat, listening to the cantor practice the week’s readings from behind the flimsy wall that separated his office from the rec room. Sheila had never felt it necessary to get involved in the sisterhood here in South Park.
But then Moira had shown up, both of them early and waiting outside Geveret Greenberg’s kitah hay classroom. Moira was complaining about the annual sisterhood fundraiser, a Saturday evening trip into Denver to see a traveling production of Oliver! And Sheila had only been following along half-heartedly until Moira got to the point that she needed a babysitter.
“Jared is 10 now,” Moira was saying, a black iced coffee from Starbucks empty in her hand, the melting ice sloshing noisily as he shook it for emphasis. “But I don’t feel comfortable leaving him without a sitter.”
“Of course not,” Sheila agreed, hugging her pocketbook to her chest, “I’d never leave my children alone at that age. Ike is barely able to get milk down from the top shelf of the refrigerator himself.”
“And little Sadie only four!” Moira continued. “I can’t find anyone."
The thing about Sheila Broflovski was, she had a nose for opportunity. Until this moment Sheila had never exchanged four words with Moira Steinmetz, but here they were, Moira bitching openly about her babysitter troubles. What was wrong with this woman that she couldn't find a babysitter five days in advance?
"You know," Sheila said, taking a step toward Moira, into the flickering overhead halogen light. "My son could babysit for you."
"Isn't he 10? He's in Jared's class. That doesn't make any sense."
"Not Ike," said Sheila, "my son Kyle. He's 16 and he's very responsible."
"Oh," said Moira, raising an eyebrow. "Is he?"
"Yes, very responsible," Sheila repeated. "He's in the top 10 percent of his class. He just got his driver's license, he knows CPR, and he was recently published in the Denver Post." That last part was true; Kyle had, in fact, written a letter to the Denver Post decrying an op/ed they had published about needing more music and arts in school. "Art classes make students with poor art skills such as me feel we are having our time wasted when we could have been taking back-to-back trigonometry," Kyle had written. "According to President Obama's State of the Union Address this year, the US desperately needs more trained scientists and engineers in order to compete in a global marketplace. I for one feel that the government should establish better after-school arts programs for those students who wish to participate." The letter was currently framed and hung over the couch with some of Kyle's other triumphs: a second-place ribbon for a fourth-grade speech on Latino culture, his certificate of honorable mention in last's years science fair, and an award for being the "Most Meticulous," from Jew Scouts.
"I've never had a male babysitter watch my children," said Moira.
"He won't do anything funny," said Sheila. "He's not like other boys his age who are involved in a lot of riff-raff. He mostly keeps to himself and studies. He's very responsible."
"Hmmm." Moira stared at the top of her Starbucks cup as she thought. "What does he charge?"
"Well, he watches his brother for free. He could do it for, you know, $7 an hour?"
"That sounds fair," said Moira, and she tossed her cup in the garbage (labelled with the Hebrew word for "garbage") and extracted her phone from her purse in order to take down Kyle's number.
~
Back home, Kyle was lying on the couch, phone to his ear, conducting a conversation when his mother returned with Ike in tow. "Dude, I know," he was saying, inspecting his nails as he spoke, "but you just have to ignore that guy. Don't get all macho and start arguing, that's the worst thing you can do. ... No, I don't think that's a good idea. ... No, don't. Don't so that, either. Just let him think he's right. No, I don't have a better idea! I don't know, don't ask me what to fucking do about your hockey coach. Tell him to fuck off, that's what I'd do."
That was when Kyle looked up and saw his mother staring down at him. "Aw, shit," he said, sitting up. "My mom's home. Yeah, I know. I know! I'll be online later. I know. ... I know. ... You too." A coy smile came over Kyle's face. "...Probably something disgusting. Okay. I'll be online! Yeah, I know. Bye, dude." And he hung up the phone.
"Who was that?" Sheila asked.
"Stan," said Kyle.
"I wish you wouldn't swear like that in front of your brother." She bustled into the kitchen, where she had left a clutch of chicken legs defrosting since lunchtime. As she expected, Kyle followed her.
"I wasn't," Kyle insisted. "Ike went upstairs. ... I did all my homework," he added, though Sheila hadn't asked, and hadn't been wondering.
"Good," she said, removing the chicken from the sink and placing it on the counter. "I have some exciting news for you, bubbe."
"What?" Kyle asked. He rubbed his hands together, looking at her expectantly. He was such a good boy, she could barely stand it.
It had been on a Wednesday, picking her son Ike up from Hebrew school, that Sheila Broflovski had fallen into a conversation with Moira Steinmetz. Moira was the secretary of the synagogue sisterhood, an organization in which Mrs. Broflovski had never been involved. She recalled with dread muggy summer afternoons on the linoleum floor of the First Conservative Congregation of Central Newark, waiting for her mother to conclude her weekly game of mahjong. For hours, these games went on, leaving Sheila and her sister nothing to do but wilt in the heat, listening to the cantor practice the week’s readings from behind the flimsy wall that separated his office from the rec room. Sheila had never felt it necessary to get involved in the sisterhood here in South Park.
But then Moira had shown up, both of them early and waiting outside Geveret Greenberg’s kitah hay classroom. Moira was complaining about the annual sisterhood fundraiser, a Saturday evening trip into Denver to see a traveling production of Oliver! And Sheila had only been following along half-heartedly until Moira got to the point that she needed a babysitter.
“Jared is 10 now,” Moira was saying, a black iced coffee from Starbucks empty in her hand, the melting ice sloshing noisily as he shook it for emphasis. “But I don’t feel comfortable leaving him without a sitter.”
“Of course not,” Sheila agreed, hugging her pocketbook to her chest, “I’d never leave my children alone at that age. Ike is barely able to get milk down from the top shelf of the refrigerator himself.”
“And little Sadie only four!” Moira continued. “I can’t find anyone."
The thing about Sheila Broflovski was, she had a nose for opportunity. Until this moment Sheila had never exchanged four words with Moira Steinmetz, but here they were, Moira bitching openly about her babysitter troubles. What was wrong with this woman that she couldn't find a babysitter five days in advance?
"You know," Sheila said, taking a step toward Moira, into the flickering overhead halogen light. "My son could babysit for you."
"Isn't he 10? He's in Jared's class. That doesn't make any sense."
"Not Ike," said Sheila, "my son Kyle. He's 16 and he's very responsible."
"Oh," said Moira, raising an eyebrow. "Is he?"
"Yes, very responsible," Sheila repeated. "He's in the top 10 percent of his class. He just got his driver's license, he knows CPR, and he was recently published in the Denver Post." That last part was true; Kyle had, in fact, written a letter to the Denver Post decrying an op/ed they had published about needing more music and arts in school. "Art classes make students with poor art skills such as me feel we are having our time wasted when we could have been taking back-to-back trigonometry," Kyle had written. "According to President Obama's State of the Union Address this year, the US desperately needs more trained scientists and engineers in order to compete in a global marketplace. I for one feel that the government should establish better after-school arts programs for those students who wish to participate." The letter was currently framed and hung over the couch with some of Kyle's other triumphs: a second-place ribbon for a fourth-grade speech on Latino culture, his certificate of honorable mention in last's years science fair, and an award for being the "Most Meticulous," from Jew Scouts.
"I've never had a male babysitter watch my children," said Moira.
"He won't do anything funny," said Sheila. "He's not like other boys his age who are involved in a lot of riff-raff. He mostly keeps to himself and studies. He's very responsible."
"Hmmm." Moira stared at the top of her Starbucks cup as she thought. "What does he charge?"
"Well, he watches his brother for free. He could do it for, you know, $7 an hour?"
"That sounds fair," said Moira, and she tossed her cup in the garbage (labelled with the Hebrew word for "garbage") and extracted her phone from her purse in order to take down Kyle's number.
~
Back home, Kyle was lying on the couch, phone to his ear, conducting a conversation when his mother returned with Ike in tow. "Dude, I know," he was saying, inspecting his nails as he spoke, "but you just have to ignore that guy. Don't get all macho and start arguing, that's the worst thing you can do. ... No, I don't think that's a good idea. ... No, don't. Don't so that, either. Just let him think he's right. No, I don't have a better idea! I don't know, don't ask me what to fucking do about your hockey coach. Tell him to fuck off, that's what I'd do."
That was when Kyle looked up and saw his mother staring down at him. "Aw, shit," he said, sitting up. "My mom's home. Yeah, I know. I know! I'll be online later. I know. ... I know. ... You too." A coy smile came over Kyle's face. "...Probably something disgusting. Okay. I'll be online! Yeah, I know. Bye, dude." And he hung up the phone.
"Who was that?" Sheila asked.
"Stan," said Kyle.
"I wish you wouldn't swear like that in front of your brother." She bustled into the kitchen, where she had left a clutch of chicken legs defrosting since lunchtime. As she expected, Kyle followed her.
"I wasn't," Kyle insisted. "Ike went upstairs. ... I did all my homework," he added, though Sheila hadn't asked, and hadn't been wondering.
"Good," she said, removing the chicken from the sink and placing it on the counter. "I have some exciting news for you, bubbe."
"What?" Kyle asked. He rubbed his hands together, looking at her expectantly. He was such a good boy, she could barely stand it.