I was a nanny for Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes, and he had a sister. In the middle of the afternoon on a crisp fall day I was walking the sister across a street and she was killed by a hit and run driver.
I went back to the house where Calvin lived with his dad – a 40-something, stocky, beer-drinking divorcee. I gave them the terrible news and it seemed to cause almost no reaction. Calvin asked a few morbid questions and went to bed. However the entire next day he acted out and misbehaved, wouldn’t focus on lessons, threw tantrums.
I was at dinner at a german pub with his father that night. He told me over and over how amazed he was at my patience with his son. I said I was astonished at how he was still able to trust someone who’d been in charge of his other child when she died.
And then I said, “Calvin is a cartoon character. This behaviour is nothing new. I nannied for him last year. He didn’t have a sister that time around and no one was killed and he behaved exactly the same way, because that’s how he is drawn.”
Calvin’s father sat, thinking this over, but said nothing.
“It’s like burlesque,” I said. You sit in the audience and you get teased up to a certain level but it never crosses that line. Why? Because if you go too far, you release the tension. And without the tension, there’s no reason to watch. This is no different. Calvin has to remain the same and never achieve catharsis. Otherwise you will lose your audience.”
Calvin’s parent was now standing against the wall across from me, a tall, beautiful brunette in a grey hoodie, dark jeans, gorgeous understated boots. She nodded again, our conversation over, and walked away. I watched her from behind, took a breath and exhaled, “Damn. That is one hot mother.” Beside me, a couple of the men perched on barstools echoed my appreciation.
