Playground Happy Hour
“I think it’s invite only,” I text from the other side of the Clarendon Street playlot’s wrought iron fence.
Nonsense, he assures me, but he can’t see the thirty-odd children, digging trenches in the sand as they race in weaving patterns, up ladders, down slides, around plastic play equipment, and between their business attire-clad parents, who chat over red plastic party cups and paper plates.
Finally I give the gate a noncommittal pull, ready to sprint away as if I suddenly remembered my invite was for the other playlot if it doesn’t open.
It doesn’t open. Just as I prepare to back away, someone comes up behind me and unlocks the fence, swinging it ajar and holding it so I can wedge Charlie’s stroller through the opening. He shows me the latch at the top. “Just so you know for next time,” he says with a smile.
No one approaches us as we head toward the empty side of the playground – no one asks to see our invite or calls security or shouts, “INTRUDERS!” or puts down their drinks to glare at us. In fact, no one notices us at all.
I park the stroller by the nearest bench, and Charlie and I stand side by side, staring at the children swarming like classmates in a schoolyard at recess. Charlie’s playground in London had been built into an old cemetery – gravestones still lined the mossy, crumbling brick walls – and most days pigeons outnumbered children. I wonder if he’s remembering his British days as he stands there next to me, kicking shyly at the sand and pulling at his pant ties.
I give him a little push, “Go play.”
But he doesn’t move and I don’t try again.
Sometimes he looks up and gives me a shy smile and we both laugh at nothing.
This isn’t a playlot. This is a playground-themed cocktail party. This is G-rated after-work drinks. And we’re the awkward couple that can only talk to each other.
“Charlie, how was your day at school?”
“Yeah,” with a giggle. Silence. He points at a little girl on the playground. “Eh,” giggle.
Oh, yes, mm hmm, I agree.
“Eh, car.”
Yes, a lot of cars out today.
We’re killin’ it. The others refill their party cups, load their plates with carrot sticks and ranch dressing, dish out juice boxes.
“Cars!”
“Cars.”
“Yyeah!” He points at the little girl again and laughs, looking to me to laugh with him.
We’re that couple in the corner. The ones that talk about everyone else because they can’t bring themselves to talk to them.
Meanwhile two groups of boys meet on our side of the playlot.
“Wanna play spies with us? Our secret hideout is over there!”
“Now we know where your secret hideout is!”
The lead spy recognizes his mistake with a nervous chug of his juicebox. Now that they know where his secret hideout is they must play spies with him. He tells them they’ll be double agents. Three little girls in dresses sneak up the slide behind them. The playhouse has been toppled. A blue plastic phone hangs off the hook. The spies get to work, crawling on their bellies, ducking down behind transparent playground equipment.
And the Friday cocktail hour revelers chat on unaware.
He wasn’t invited to play spies, his networking skills are as sad and absent as mine, and he wants to go home. “Milk. Eat. Teddy. Home.”
We slip out of the Clarendon Street playlot unnoticed.