“Your subconscious is a hidden part of you that does things you don’t realize and thinks things you’re not fully aware of.”
“Oh.” Timby’s head was turned; he was looking out the window.
“It’s almost as if there’s a separate person inside of you who has ideas all their own. And often those ideas aren’t good ideas.”
Timby twisted his mouth. The rush of brick apartment buildings still held his gaze.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, this morning, a part of me grabbed Delphine’s mom’s keys.”
“Your hand.”
I readjusted the mirror.
“What do you want to do when we get home?” I asked. “Play Rat-a-Tat Cat? Make pizza? We can watch I Know, Right?”
“Can I watch it by myself?”
We stopped at a light outside the Key Arena. A half dozen monks with shaved heads, wearing saffron robes and those cloth shoulder bags you make in Sewing 101, crossed in front of us. On another corner, pedestrians with a DON’T WALK sign waited even though no cars were coming.
“Seattle,” I said. “I’ve never seen a city of pedestrians less invested in crossing the street.”
“Maybe they’re just happy,” Timby said.
I passed the gift basket back. “Tear into that thing, will you?”
With a frightening single-mindedness, Timby tried sliding off the bow, but it only tightened. He pulled at the ends, but the knot was glued. He clawed at open folds in the cellophane but could only jab a finger in. Finally, he grabbed a pencil out of the cup holder and viciously stabbed at the wrapper.
“Gee,” I said. “Nice follow-through.”
The monks reached a food truck and stood in line. On the hood was a chrome snout. PIG ‘N’ SHIT it said.
“You know what might be fun to watch together?” I said. “Looper Wash.”
“Kate O. watches Looper Wash,” Timby said, biting into an olive roll. “Her moms have the DVDs. It’s their favorite show.”
I pulled into our alley and clicked open the garage.
“What does it even mean?” Timby asked. “Looper Wash?”
“The woman who wrote the pilot had four daughters.”
“Violet Parry,” Timby said. “She’s your best friend.”
“That’s right. The oldest was hers and the rest were adopted from Ethiopia, Cambodia, and somewhere else.”
“If they’re adopted, they’re hers too,” Timby corrected.
I glided into our space and turned off the engine. “Violet wrote a pilot about four girls who hang out in a wash in a town called Looper. Looper Wash.”
“What’s a wash?” he asked.
“A dry riverbed.” I adjusted the mirror so we could see each other. “I know, it’s kind of weird. You always need to explain it. The girls are hilarious. They hate technology and progress. And hippies and food waste.”
Timby, eating cookies now, looked unconvinced.
“Trust me,” I said. “It’s funny.”
“It sounds mean.”
“When you get older, mean is funny.” I turned around. “Because Violet and I were women doing a show that both adults and children loved, that was full of social satire and girl power—it was just a really big deal.” I turned to face the front.
“Are you crying?” Timby asked.
I opened the door and got out.
“We don’t have to watch it if you don’t want,” Timby said, still cradling the gift basket, now a hangover of raffia grass, empty wrappers, open jars, and loose Dutch mints.
“I do want,” I said. We got into the elevator. I pushed L and the doors sealed us in.
“Let’s start with the pilot,” I said. “It’s a little slow, but there are funny things to watch for.”
“Like what?”
The doors opened and we rounded the corner to the mailboxes.
“The show was hand-colored in Hungary…” I opened the mailbox. Junk, junk, junk. “And the script had the girls feeding their ponies Junior Mints.”
“Really?”
“We had a guy on staff who claimed ponies love Junior Mints—”
A large envelope from Jazz Alley. SEASON TICKETS INSIDE. Despite my protestations, Joe must have re-subscribed. At least he heeded my pleas and seemed to have chosen only a couple of shows.
“Anyway,” I said to Timby, tucking the tickets under my arm, “in Hungary they got our designs but I guess they weren’t familiar with Junior Mints and decided they were a type of meat.”
Timby hung on my every word.
“We didn’t have time to correct it,” I said. “It goes by quickly, but if you slow it down, you can see Millicent feeding her pony bloody hunks of meat.”
“I want to see that!” Timby said.
Suddenly, a cry from across the lobby.
“There she is!”
Sydney Madsen! Rushing at me with her skinny runner’s body and weird water shoes.
I gasped, realizing.
Ajay the doorman was by her side. Whatever Sydney Madsen had just put him through, it was above his pay grade.
“Eleanor, you’re okay!” Sydney grabbed my arms and shook me. “What is going on?”
“I totally messed up! I thought we were having lunch.”