The Village Idiot: Learning to make allowances
“How much is enough? Fifty dollars? A hundred?” The Fergusons were debating how much to give their 13-year-old daughter Cartier for her weekly allowance.
A hundred dollars? I was trying to remember what my allowance was when I was 13 — was it a quarter or 50 cents? It must have been 50 cents because movies were a quarter and the bus, with transfers, was a dime. Even with inflation, $12 should get Cartier to the movies and back. $15 tops.
“When was the last time we raised the limit on her credit card?” Bob asked.
“Oh, it’s been awhile,” said Beverly. “Sometime this spring I think. Remember, it was only $1,200 a month and she couldn’t even put plane tickets on it. She was so embarrassed when she went to buy plane tickets to Cancun and it was declined.”
“I don’t know,” Bob said, “Maybe we should have let her go. Maybe we’re being too strict.”
“You can never be too strict,” Beverly said. “I told her she could only go if she flew coach, not first class. So she decided not to go. I’m sure she thinks I’m a monster. I don’t know why I have to be the disciplinarian in this family. Why do I always have to be the bad guy?
“Besides, her credit card isn’t supposed to be used for travel. It’s for shoes and clothes and purses and iPods and CDs — the necessities. The whole idea is to teach her that money doesn’t just grow on trees, that it comes from her parents, the same way ours does.”
Bob snorted. “Hey, I’m just as tough on her as you are. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I told her she couldn’t go to the movies unless she let the maid clean her room first.”
To get my 50-cent allowance, there was always some loathsome chore to done first: mow the lawn, scrape paint off the porch railing, pull weeds, trim the hedge, clean out the garage or a thousand other little things. And it taught me a life lesson — hire someone to do those chores for you as soon as you can afford it.
“I thought she’d seen everything. What movie did she go to?”
“Let me think, it was ‘Hot, Wet Nurses Meet the Army’ or ‘Secret Lives of Cheerleaders’ or something. I’m so glad she’s finally going to see something uplifting instead of that normal Hollywood trash. So many of today’s movies are just gunfights and car chases. These sounded really motivational, though. I couldn’t find any reviews for them, though, they must have just come out.”
Surely it couldn’t be the same “Secret Lives of Cheerleaders” we had seen 20 years ago at a bachelor party for Winston Snuffin. That was so raunchy I don’t even think it’s been on cable television, yet.
It was four in the afternoon. Cartier was not up yet.
“Isn’t that a little odd?” I asked. “Is she sick?”
“Oh, no,” Beverly assured me, “It’s just that she had a long night. She didn’t get home until 11.”
“You let a 13-year-old girl stay out till 11 at night?”
“Of course not. What kind of parents do you think we are? It’s dangerous for kids to be out late at night. She didn’t get home until 11 this morning.”
I’m trying to think. When was my bedtime when I was 13? Four in the afternoon? Eight at night?
“And it’s not like she was unsupervised,” Beverly continued. “She was with that nice Goth family.”
“No, honey,” said Bob, “She was with the Vandals.”
“Vandals, Goths, what’s the difference? She was safe. This is the age where you have to be careful. You don’t want her to start hanging out with the wrong crowd.
It occurred to me that her parents were the wrong crowd. Here’s a “Dr. Phil” show waiting to happen. I left before Cartier got up. I’m not sure I was ready to see her stumble downstairs in an outfit from the kid’s section of Victoria’s Secret.
Jim Mullen is the author of “It Takes a Village Idiot: Complicating the Simple Life” and “Baby’s First Tattoo.” You can reach him at [email protected].