The Evaluation of Care

Nam Tran

I was returning from a jog when my Armenian neighbor beckoned me over. He wore bull-denim overalls cuffed above the ankles and was fertilizing what appeared to be petunias. Besides the occasional wave, I’ll admit the two of us weren’t terribly close. Dinner reservations had been made and someone needed to watch his five-year-old son, Levon. As stories of flying Lego bricks and destroyed kitchens came to mind, he said I’d be compensated fifty dollars for my efforts. Given that some money was better than nothing. I agreed before heading home to prepare. It couldn’t possibly be that bad, could it?

The first hour played out as I imagined it would. A nature themed coloring book held Levon’s attention, allowing me to work on several crosswords I’d been meaning to finish. Glances were exchanged every so often, but that was it in terms of communication. I fell asleep shortly after completing two puzzles and awoke to find a tipped over stool with Levon nowhere in sight.

 All right, the kid’s gone, I thought, but where?

 Even with good intentions, it felt wrong to compile a list of places a child’s body could fit.  I followed the clinking of jars downstairs and discovered Levon waist deep inside the refrigerator.

  “Looks like someone’s hungry!”

   “No shit,” he replied.

Part of me wanted to uppercut him for swearing, but I refrained, knowing Jesus wouldn’t approve. Once the initial shock wore off, I was quite amused hearing it from someone his age. Five-year-old me never knew such words existed, let alone possessed the courage to direct them at figures of authority. One thing Levon did share with my younger self was a hatred of all vegetables. Fully aware of the pushback, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least try. My game plan involved bamboozling him with butternut squash cut to resemble a chicken tender. Hopes were high until Levon called out my bullshit and began emitting a blood-curdling shrill as if possessed by a demon.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted. “Stop the screaming and I’ll give you anything!”

He paused to consider my offer, then pointed to a bag of dinosaur-shaped Tyson nuggets. It was situated atop the counter beneath what looked like a year’s worth of Time magazines. Retrieving the nuggets would’ve been a solo mission had Levon not been only three feet tall. As it was, he asked if I could lend a hand. Levon’s eyes followed the microwave turntable as heat breathed life into his bite-sized friends. The Triceratops-shaped ones were his favorite. I asked about the other dinosaurs getting jealous and Levon shrugged before biting the head of a Tyrannosaurus Rex clean off.

“Why are they your favorite?”

 “They eat plants, which makes them nice.”

I browsed Google Images and found a picture depicting the gentle giant impaling what appeared to be a mother Velociraptor in the neck. Copious amounts of blood spewed from three puncture wounds and the raptor’s demeanor signaled great distress. Levon examined the photo carefully before insisting they were only playfighting.

  “Can’t you see the Triceratops smiling?”

That’s because it inflicted potentially fatal damage to an opponent, I thought. Prehistoric creatures with claws and spears on their heads did not brawl to be cute. And when shown a dinosaur bleeding out from jugular injuries, even the most stubborn of children would agree that something went horribly wrong.

With both parents gone, Levon enjoyed his nuggets while watching television. I lost it after the tenth Backyardigans episode and lunged for the remote. Skipping over various news channels and a BBC documentary on marsupials, I settled on a show called Worst Cooks in America. The highlight of this season was a man who announced he almost burned down his house three times. Trailing close behind was a woman who, at one point, started trash-talking a gummy bear. After watching her struggle to cut it, Chef Tyler Florence suggested she remove the knife’s protective sheath. The woman obeyed, then let out a prolonged ohhhh, which translated to “I’m a dumbass.” While some Hispanic guy was hit in the eye with a shard of okra, I asked Levon whether they had similar programs in Armenia.

“No,” he said. “But my mother would be perfect.”

I learned that Levon’s parents led busy lives. Gone for the better part of most days, they rarely found time for themselves. That was before factoring in the energy required to entertain a five-year-old, who often became a burden. Dinner was typically thrown together and consisted of either reheated frozen meals or hereesa, an Armenian porridge made with coarsely-ground wheat. Both lacking the sustenance necessary to nurture a growing child. Having only caught glimpses of Levon, it never occurred to me how thin he was. Cerulean veins streaked the length of his forearm, his skin appearing vacuumed-sealed around what little muscle he had.

Maybe that’s why he rarely went out, I thought. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his parents knew, perhaps more than anyone, that a body like his simply could not withstand the rigors of everyday life.

For a while, we watched television in silence. I asked if he could spare a nugget and received what appeared to be a Stegosaurus. The stillness of it all struck me as peculiar given what was unfolding on screen. A Brazilian man fumbled an entire tray of croutons and, for once, Levon laughed. Not a pretend chuckle I’m sure was common around his folks, but one which displayed genuine delight. It felt nice knowing a show I picked brought joy to someone whose bravado concealed a much deeper hurt. Although our evening started off a bit shaky, none of that seemed to matter anymore. Fifty dollars or not, who was to determine the price of something as invaluable as human companionship? The both of us at peace, munching on our dinosaurs while marveling at the pandemonium someplace far away from here.

Bio

Nam Hoang Tran is a writer living in Orlando, FL. His work appears or is forthcoming in The Daily Drunk, White Wall Review, Bending Genres, (mac)ro(mic), Rejection Letters, and elsewhere. Find him online at www.namhtran.com