Internal Matters




The Springwater Cable Company distributes the TV channels for the South side of town, largely made up of stations in Salt Lake City.

For some reason the North side of town’s TV comes out of Boise. So the only time I ever saw Monty Python or Blackadder was when I was babysitting at a house on a street North of Main. Very weird.

Anyway, the SCC building also houses the three radio stations in town. One is Country, one is Country/Western, and one is Oldies Rock five nights a week, Disco on Friday and Saturday.

And they own the studios for the Public Access Channel.

When I was accepted as an intern, I actually ended up training as a cameraman for anyone who wanted to have their own TV show, and didn’t have enough people to crew it.

It was fun work, and it was interesting to watch various people talk about the various things that concerned them, be it religion, trivia, science fiction, gossip, politics, music, and the incredible threat that sylphs pose to this once great nation and why they should be under direct government supervision, like heroin or nuclear weapons.

There were a few shows hosted by people that were terribly afraid of the Sylph Threat. I couldn’t bring Electra in on those nights, out of a fear of some sort of reprisal.

So they didn’t schedule me at all on nights they taped the religious, political or flat-out nut-burger shows that made Electra scared and/or made me want to throw up.

So even though I had a sort of job, I still had nights available for babysitting, if I wanted to.

Or more to the point, if Electra wanted to. For those homes where she had gotten a ‘creeper’ vibe from the dads, I just said ‘prior commitments’ and we were done.

Also worked for those dads who had asked for a look at naked sylph every time we’d babysat for them.

But there were families that had asked one time or less, and if Electra was comfortable, we could still use the money.

And I really do think she enjoyed showing off for the kids.

We sent off for a sylph leotard that matched the design of her favorite Olympic gymnast. I’d tell you her name, but I forgot it, and I really, really don’t want to ask Electra to tell me the name yet again.

Anyway, she had actually worked up a formal routine that she showed the kids if they were well-behaved.

It was awe-inspiring, I’ll admit that. No normal-sized human could have matched the heights she flipped up to, or the number of turns she got on a jump.

So I was free to prepare the evening meal, if that was part of the program, or to change a diaper, or anything else, while she was drawing their attention.

If one of the kids started asking questions about becoming a gymnast, Electra even waived her percentage of the babysitting fee, considering the evening an investment in making the world a bouncier place.

So that day was a usual one, we got home from school and Mom had a message. She shouted out from the laundry room as I went into the kitchen and put Electra down on the table. “Someone called, asking if you guys were available to sit for them on Saturday.”

“Okay,” I said. I opened the cookie jar and got two out, and plated them.

“I said I don’t know your schedule, so you’ll have to call them back with a yes or a no!”

“Alright!” I replied. I broke up one of the cookies and set the plate on the table. Electra got a piece while I poured us a milk.

Mom came out with a basket of folded clothes, headed for the bedrooms. “And of course, I know you have to run it past your manager.” She disappeared up the stairway.

Mom knows I give Electra veto power over the jobs these days, though she doesn’t know the standard Electra uses. She just thinks I’ve finally accepted that Electra is way smarter than me and use her advice.

I glanced at the dry-erase board on the fridge.

There was a phone number and a name. It was Mrs. Branch.

Mrs. Branch, the heavy tipper.

Mrs. Branch, the woman who wanted to be someone’s pet sylph when she grew up.

Mrs. Branch, who’d let me touch her breasts.

I was breathing deeply when Electra moved far enough to look around my torso and see the fridge. She started to laugh.

“Oh, if I said no, you’d never talk to me again!”

“Wrong,” I said. I leaned down close to where she was standing. “I’d never stop talking to you. I’d tell you every single thought that came into my head.”

“Both of them?” she asked in mock horror, hands clasped to her cheeks.

“Every woman I found attractive, I’d tell you her rating. Every man I saw, I’d tell you which Monty Python skit he reminded me of, and at least act out the punchline. If there was one.

“Every joke I thought up, I’d tell you. Even the ones I know won’t work or won’t be funny or are too obscure for anyone besides me to get the humor.”

“Oh, God,” Electra moaned.

“Every song on the radio, I’d tell you if anyone has ever done a parody of the song, or used it in a movie. Every one of the-“

“OKAY!” she squealed, “You can sit for Mrs. Branch!”

“Thank you,” I said, sitting back.

“Why is it so important to you?” my mom asked. I hadn’t heard her come back down the stairs and had no idea how much of the threats she’d heard. You’d think that a LOYAL pet would let me know my mom has walked into the room. It’s not like a 7-story building can just sneak up on you.



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Index

18. Votes

20. Babysitting (N)