Children for Rent

Most of us reach out for others and try to help when they're in need.  Sometimes, regrettably, our efforts are misunderstood.  During the 1960's one selfless gesture of mine not only went unappreciated but unaccepted as well.

It wasn't that I needed the money.  My financial life, then as now, was controlled with mathematical precision: weekly expenses = weekly income + $10.  Like the speed of light this formula was a constant I could depend on, and it never failed to keep me working.  Moreover, additional funds wouldn't have changed the equation.  So I can assure you the money was not my motive.

No, my offer was made in the interests of safe driving.  When my friend Florence complained turnpike driving was so dull it was dangerous, I knew what I had to do.  Admittedly the state police had done their best.  Along the route they'd placed ominous green signs, all reminding her to "Keep Awake."  They'd even taken into account her perverse moments, and posted as a countermove the command "Rest Next."  But these measures had failed.  What Florence needed was neither advice nor psychology but a solid, practical solution.  And here I could help.

For unlike Florence and her fellow sufferers, I didn't find the turnpike restful, let alone dull.  By the time I'd hit exit sixteen, I'd be in a state bordering the maniacal.  My teeth would be gritted, my brow coated with sweat, and my palms would have big red marks on them‑-the kind that come from gripping a steering wheel too hard, too long.

And why?  Because I'd taken my kids along, that's why.  Ninety miles with them and I couldn't sleep for weeks.

I'd toss fitfully to echoes of the mysterious "It is so fair‑-you threw my sneaker out last time."  I'd live again the frustrations of a head peering over my shoulder despite my shrill reminder to stay seated.  Anxiety would mount with the screeching imperative of "Mom, quick!  Look at that!"  And I'd wake with nightmare sweat still hearing "Bob's hanging out the window!"

Thus I offered Florence, and other friends who drove the turnpike, the rent of my children.  But while I pushed the large, economy package (the two kids together), I was prepared to bargain.  As I say, it wasn't the money I was interested in.  I'd have loaned hard-pressed individuals the five-year-old by himself, at a smaller fee.  Rather nervous people would have found just the nine-year-old sufficient, and I made his price nominal.  I was even prepared, if it came to that, to give a free ten-day trial.  But no one‑-no one!‑-would avail himself of my generosity.

And so, bitterly, I've given up the good fight.  Somebody else will have to stem the rising tide of traffic deaths.  And you can bet his solution will cost a fortune.  But it will never be as efficient as mine.