I arrived late at the playground and found it full of unfamiliar, seamy characters.
There was one guy who looked nice enough with a baby girl just about Boo’s age, so I tried to steer our play over in his direction. Every time we got near them, though, dad veered off toward one of the nanny-toddler pairings, leaving me in the dust of his swings.
It was “parallel play,” adult-style: he was on the swings, I was on the swings. He was in the bushes, I was in the bushes. He was in the sandbox, I was in the sandbox.
I was about to take offense when I suddenly saw on his face…
The Look, for those of you who don’t yet know, is the expression of lustful intent so common in boys from middle school on. Most of us lose **The Look **by the time we’re contentedly married and starting families, and those that don’t at least learn to mask it — usually by yawning or sneezing just at the right time.
“Wow, honey,” our wives might comment. “Did you see that hoochie mamma just walk by?”
“Oh, no, sorry, dear — I was busy tying my shoelace.”
So Mr. Slick wasn’t steering his child away from me, he was steering her toward the hottest of the babysitters, and being pretty obvious about it, I might add. Middle-aged empty-nesters need not apply — this dude was targeting the 20-something aspiring singer-songwriters and fine arts students.
What they lack in maternal instinct they make up for in tight tank tops.
Oddly enough, Mr. Slick was getting a fair bit of play, albeit in a sort of dispassionate, pity-conversation kind of way. Just think: if he’d been willing to hang out with me instead of the scantinannies, I’d have been able to regale him with my considerable wit and fancy stories about poop!
Hm. Maybe he was onto something after all.
Still… he’s got to fix his face: **The Look **doesn’t play well after 30.