Cotton Balls
Only a few of the neighborhood kids showed up for my eighth birthday party, and even then it was mostly because my parents asked their parents to make sure they came. My parents, my mom especially, were outgoing, friendly people who would have dinner parties and barbecues for all of their friends on the block. I, on the other hand, was a clumsy, not-quite-fat smartmouth with barely any social skills and fewer friends. My only skill, which I practiced as much as I could for lack of any other skills or hobbies, was annoying people. If you had an insecurity or a hot-button, I could find it, whether you were six, sixteen, or sixty. And boy would I push that button. I craved attention and the only way I knew how to get attention was to get a rise out of people. I was a little shit.
About a week before, I had overheard my mom on the phone with one of the other moms on the block, telling her to please try to get her son Paul to come. She tried selling the party by telling her about the food and drinks, and the party games. She implied that they would just have to show up for an hour or so, eat some cake, drink some punch, play a game or two, and they could take off. The whole family was invited so the parents could all have some fun too, and she wouldn’t get stuck with me all day. I know she meant well, and I don’t harbor any anger toward her, because she and my dad had been totally unprepared by anything in Doctor Spock, totally unprepared to deal with a child like me.
So the day of the party, about six kids and their parents showed up. I was suddenly the center of attention, and because it was the only way I knew how to deal with it, I annoyed the shit out of anyone who got within speaking distance of me. Finally, to forestall the impending lynching, my mom suggested we play a game.
She had read of a fun party game where you blindfold the player and sit him or her at a table. On the table in front of the player are two bowls, one empty, one filled with cotton balls. The player is given a teaspoon and has a certain amount of time to spoon the cotton balls from one bowl to the other. At the end of the time limit, the balls are counted and then put back in the first bowl, ready for the next player. After everyone has had their turn, the person who transferred the most balls is the winner.
You see, the difficult part of this whole thing is that you’re blindfolded, right? You can’t see the cotton balls, which are light enough that you can’t tell whether or not there’s actually a ball on your spoon during the transfer. We watched the first couple of kids try the game, laughing at them when they dropped a ball in mid-transfer without realizing it, or when they went through the whole motion without actually having a ball on their spoon.
Finally it was my turn to play this fascinating game. I sat at the table, blindfolded, and started moving balls. Only I was really good at it. Every time I would dip my spoon, I would come up with a ball. I would slowly and gracefully move the spoon across the foot of distance between the bowls, and deposit the cotton ball in its desired receptacle. After twenty seconds of stunned silence from the crowd, I had moved eleven cotton balls, not dropping one. The current record for a whole minute was four successful transfers.
This is the part I need you to believe: I WAS NOT CHEATING. I couldn’t see through or under my blindfold, I couldn’t feel the cotton ball on the spoon, nothing. It was just blind luck, or maybe the fact that I knew it would really piss everyone off if I was good at a game at my own goddamn birthday party. The murmurs from the crowd were not of appreciation for my skill, but rather of disbelief and anger over the fact that I was obviously cheating.
Paul’s dad Tim was there. He was a big blond beer-drinking guy with a mustache who liked sports and cars. I had nothing in common with him. He decided he was going to prove that I was cheating. Then they could all laugh at me and have an excuse to leave early. He decided he would throw a punch at my face, pulling the punch right before it would hit me. I would jerk back in reflex, which would prove I could really see, right?
Unfortunately, he had had a few beers earlier that afternoon and his eye-hand coordination wasn’t really up to snuff. He hit me. Hard. Remember, I couldn’t really see, so I was in placid mid-transfer of a cotton ball when a grown man punched me in my eight-year-old face.
I flew backward in my chair, landing square on my back. This knocked the air out of me, so I couldn’t quite manage to scream as I felt blood roll down my cheeks back to my ears. I heard some faint gasps of shock, but they were quickly followed by barely-repressed giggles. Apparently Tim had indicated to the others what his plan was ahead of time, so they were less mad at him as they would have been had he just hauled off and socked me for no reason whatsoever. My mom and dad bent down to help me up, and as they took the blindfold off I just caught the last hints of the smiles they were trying to hide. You see, it was tragic, but it was funny too.
And I never got my prize for winning the game. But at least we had plenty of cotton balls there to stuff up my nose.
About a week before, I had overheard my mom on the phone with one of the other moms on the block, telling her to please try to get her son Paul to come. She tried selling the party by telling her about the food and drinks, and the party games. She implied that they would just have to show up for an hour or so, eat some cake, drink some punch, play a game or two, and they could take off. The whole family was invited so the parents could all have some fun too, and she wouldn’t get stuck with me all day. I know she meant well, and I don’t harbor any anger toward her, because she and my dad had been totally unprepared by anything in Doctor Spock, totally unprepared to deal with a child like me.
So the day of the party, about six kids and their parents showed up. I was suddenly the center of attention, and because it was the only way I knew how to deal with it, I annoyed the shit out of anyone who got within speaking distance of me. Finally, to forestall the impending lynching, my mom suggested we play a game.
She had read of a fun party game where you blindfold the player and sit him or her at a table. On the table in front of the player are two bowls, one empty, one filled with cotton balls. The player is given a teaspoon and has a certain amount of time to spoon the cotton balls from one bowl to the other. At the end of the time limit, the balls are counted and then put back in the first bowl, ready for the next player. After everyone has had their turn, the person who transferred the most balls is the winner.
You see, the difficult part of this whole thing is that you’re blindfolded, right? You can’t see the cotton balls, which are light enough that you can’t tell whether or not there’s actually a ball on your spoon during the transfer. We watched the first couple of kids try the game, laughing at them when they dropped a ball in mid-transfer without realizing it, or when they went through the whole motion without actually having a ball on their spoon.
Finally it was my turn to play this fascinating game. I sat at the table, blindfolded, and started moving balls. Only I was really good at it. Every time I would dip my spoon, I would come up with a ball. I would slowly and gracefully move the spoon across the foot of distance between the bowls, and deposit the cotton ball in its desired receptacle. After twenty seconds of stunned silence from the crowd, I had moved eleven cotton balls, not dropping one. The current record for a whole minute was four successful transfers.
This is the part I need you to believe: I WAS NOT CHEATING. I couldn’t see through or under my blindfold, I couldn’t feel the cotton ball on the spoon, nothing. It was just blind luck, or maybe the fact that I knew it would really piss everyone off if I was good at a game at my own goddamn birthday party. The murmurs from the crowd were not of appreciation for my skill, but rather of disbelief and anger over the fact that I was obviously cheating.
Paul’s dad Tim was there. He was a big blond beer-drinking guy with a mustache who liked sports and cars. I had nothing in common with him. He decided he was going to prove that I was cheating. Then they could all laugh at me and have an excuse to leave early. He decided he would throw a punch at my face, pulling the punch right before it would hit me. I would jerk back in reflex, which would prove I could really see, right?
Unfortunately, he had had a few beers earlier that afternoon and his eye-hand coordination wasn’t really up to snuff. He hit me. Hard. Remember, I couldn’t really see, so I was in placid mid-transfer of a cotton ball when a grown man punched me in my eight-year-old face.
I flew backward in my chair, landing square on my back. This knocked the air out of me, so I couldn’t quite manage to scream as I felt blood roll down my cheeks back to my ears. I heard some faint gasps of shock, but they were quickly followed by barely-repressed giggles. Apparently Tim had indicated to the others what his plan was ahead of time, so they were less mad at him as they would have been had he just hauled off and socked me for no reason whatsoever. My mom and dad bent down to help me up, and as they took the blindfold off I just caught the last hints of the smiles they were trying to hide. You see, it was tragic, but it was funny too.
And I never got my prize for winning the game. But at least we had plenty of cotton balls there to stuff up my nose.
posted by Steve Barr at 6:08 PM
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