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“Makers’ Monday”
William Auten
Copyright William Auten
We walk into the room, and right away Milo says, “This sucks, Dad. Buncha nerds in here.”
“It’s free.”
“So is throwing a ball against a wall.”
Kiki doesn’t say anything. Her eyes flit about every kid and shelf, nook, and cranny and outside the room and anyone and everyone coming into or leaving the library. “I don’t want them to see me,” she said before I turned off the car. Milo said, “The girls you don’t want to see don’t come to things like this.” I pulled him aside and told him to cool it.
I make sure the pacifier is snug in Baby H, sign us in, and start for the table at the back, but someone takes the chairs. We head for the front while Kiki twitches passing every seat. Milo leans against the table, wiggling his hips and cocking his legs. Kiki slinks down. Baby H grunts.
“Sweet, sweet baby.” The boomer cat lady across from me waves her fingers. “How old?”
“Eight weeks.”
“Name?”
“H.”
“Is that short for something?”
“We don’t know yet. H is the eighth letter. Eight weeks. Eighth letter.”
“Unless something happens soon he’ll be Baby Z.” Milo jumps in, adding a fart noise and airing out the backside of Baby H. “Isn’t that the term they use for zombies, Dad?”
“If Hollywood or the CDC say so, yeah.”
Boomer Cat Lady mumbles something about “millennials” to a man with a stringy all-white ponytail who looks like he should’ve retired a long time ago from being a professor.
“Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming.” The instructor rolls over a 3D printer. He finger-combs his combover and turns on the printer. “BRRRRRRRR. BZZZZZZ. WHIRRRRR,” he mimics.
Kiki flinches. The room chuckles. The instructor titters. Milo returns similar sounds and acts like when he scored in a game that made the opposing team’s parents jump on their phones and shame us about sportsmanship. I tell Baby H we’re all going to make something special for Mommy. “In time for her release.”