Baby Tyrants, a Fantasy

“Donny,” Bibi said, “are you meshugge?”

Sure, I was nuts. It was my idea to take over the living room, turn off the lights, close the blinds, draw the massive curtains. Because it was forbidden. Like that was going to stop me.

It was dark, except for the flashlights we had propped inside our blanket fort. Rain pounded at the windows like artillery and we flomped like seals, bellies down, elbows planted, chins resting on our hands, planning our next move. I scooted forward, head and shoulders outside, looking for the enemy. Light filtered through the crocheted blanket, making starlight on the walls, the sofa, the rug. The clock struck three and Bibi bellowed “Fifteen hundred hours. Report.”

“I don’t report to you. This is my fort.” I was older and bigger. No one bullies a bully like a bully.

Retaliation. He grabbed me by the leg, dragging me backwards. I rolled over and tried to kick him with my other leg but didn’t make contact. So I punched him in the stomach, relishing the snap and the oomph, like popping open a bag of pretzels. Not that I knocked the wind out of him or anything like that. We were just rough-housing, horsing around.

Pretzels reminded me that I was hungry so I opened our supply stash. A thermos of hot chocolate the nanny had made. An empty bag of barbeque potato chips, crumpled and covered with orange-stained finger prints. A half-eaten box of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. Halvah, that disgusting stuff Bibi always brought over from Tel Aviv. Diet Coke and orange Fanta, warm after hours out of the fridge. And my favorite: a bag of Micky D burgers, room temperature now, but still delish.

Scheise. Sneak attack. Bibi kicked me in the butt and sent me sprawling, nearly taking down the fort perimeter and spilling the remains of a can of Diet Coke, which soaked into the oriental, leaving a stain the shape of Israel.

“Jesus!”

“Who?” asked Bibi.

“Cool it. If my dad comes home, we’ll be in big trouble.”

“Your idea, putz.”

“Dummkopf.”

“Schmuck.”

“Sshhh. I hear something.” Bibi and I looked at each other, hands over mouths, scared but trying not to laugh.

The heavy door off the foyer opened, creaking like the mouth of doom. Footsteps into the room. Silence. Then the drapes wrenched open like the red sea parting, lights turned on, and my tornado of a father ripped the roof off the fort, leaving us exposed in our camo PJs.

He didn’t say anything as he took in the situation: chairs and end tables moved to anchor the walls of draped blankets, stacks of his precious-but-never-read leather-bound books weighing down the edges of blankets like tent pegs. The mess of snacks on the carpet, our faces, our hands. Then he focused his eyes on me with that familiar look, like I was pond scum, worthless, a nothing.

“We were playing real estate and this was our mansion,” I said, hoping to appease him. He liked seeing the budding entrepreneur in me. He also like squishing me like a bug.

“No we weren’t,” countered Bibi. “we were playing spies. I’m Mossad and Donny’s CIA, infiltrating the PLO.”

“NANNY!” my father yelled. We’d had so many he didn’t bother to learn their names. She came in, cowering like a lamb about to be butchered. “Clean it up.” Then he stomped, not even looking in our direction. If I’d been alone, he would have put his thoughts into words and hit me, a slap across the face or a spanking. But never in front of guests.

Bibi and I slunk off to my room, bag of burgers hastily snatched. We played Monopoly and then a long round of Spite and Malice.

“Hey, Donny. What are we gonna do tonight?”

“The same thing we do every night, Bibi, try to take over the world.”